


Ring the Bells, That Still Can Ring

by sesquipedality



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, F/M, Gen, Holocaust, Jew-ish Character, Past Hermione Granger/Viktor Krum, Semi-Researched Semi-Canon, Slow Burn, Tom would be a terrible boyfriend but it's fun to imagine anyway, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:01:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 44,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22612225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sesquipedality/pseuds/sesquipedality
Summary: Hermione wakes up from the Battle of the Department of Mysteries in June, 1943. Mind-altering the population of Hogwarts to remember her attending the school since 1938 is definitely an... ambitious... solution, but she can't help being an overachiever. Exhibit B: enrollment in seven NEWT-level courses, an undertaking impressive enough to pique the interest of the one classmate she's most desperate to avoid.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Comments: 80
Kudos: 301
Collections: Extraordinary Harry Potter FanFics





	1. Birds They Sing

_The birds they sing, at the break of day_ _  
_ _Start again, I heard them say._  
_Don’t dwell on what has passed away_ _  
_ _Or what is yet to be._

_—Leonard Cohen, Anthem_

Hermione found the article on the second-to-last page of the pilfered _Daily_ _Prophet._ The newspaper's original owner had spattered the paper with breakfast stains— a crackling smear of yellow yolk covered the headline— but the black print still showed through. 

**_Vanished Victim?_ **

_An unknown young witch, discovered on the floor of the Department of Mysteries in the early hours of June 18th, disappeared from Saint Mungo's Monday afternoon after intermittently regaining consciousness over the weekend. Healers involved in her care, and the Auror sent to take her statement, have lost all memories of her existence. Her treatment charts and the Auror’s incident report are likewise missing. Fabiola Fenwick, the Cleaning Witch who initially discovered the girl, describes her appearance as "plain black robes, lots of brown hair, looked like she'd been rolling in blood and vomit. Smelled like it, too." Any witch or wizard with additional information regarding these curious circumstances is requested to owl both the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and Patient Billing at Saint Mungo’s._

It was good news. It really was. There was no photograph, no additional witnesses mentioned, no detail Hermione appeared to have overlooked in her frantic, impulsive escape from the Spell Damage Ward. And the request for citizen tips was clearly pro-forma. 

It was good news. The bad news, the _worst_ news, continued to be epitomized by four numerals on the front page. 

Those digits were the reason Hermione assaulted the Auror and the medical staff. The reason she snatched the potions vials next to her cot and summoned her official paperwork, shimmied into her robes without changing out of the hospital gown, and hobbled, disillusioned, from Saint Mungo’s Fourth Floor to the public floo connection in Admissions. The reason she was squatting in this twisted ruin of a bomb site, half a kilometer from the Leaky Cauldron. 

Small print. Centered just beneath the Prophet's logo. Today’s date — June 24th... **_1943._ **

If Hermione had been tasked with creating a new, non-magical identity for herself in 1996, she’d have a good idea of where to start. She’d worried over how to keep her parents safe for the past twelve months, ever since Voldemort's resurrection. While she hadn’t entirely stopped hoping for a less dramatic option, she’d already started laying the groundwork for Plan A: Monica and Wendell Wilkins, Childless Expat Dentists. 

She hadn’t started actually casting yet, but in theory she had mastered every aspect of the spells she’d need to create false or modified memories— much more complex than the simple excision of _obliviate_ or the suggestibility created by _confundio_. 

Last month, she’d mailed off the last of the forged identity documents the Australian Department of Home Affairs requested to support the Skilled Worker, Long Term Residency visas she’d lodged in the Wilkinses’ names. 

There were plenty of details left to iron out— selling the practice, leasing the house, transferring financial assets to Australia without creating an obvious papertrail linking Helen-and-Richard to Monica-and-Wendell— but Hermione had already put countless hours of thought and practice into keeping her parents alive through a second wizarding war. 

In comparison, creating a young witch’s identity from scratch, in 1943, felt like an insurmountable challenge. 

The only thing Hermione wanted that was more impossible was a return to her own time. 

Hermione abandoned the _Prophet,_ and scowled at the list of Known Facts she’d started to assemble on the blank backs of her stolen medical charts. 

Whatever happened after Dolohov’s curse hit her, whisking her back to the later years of World War II, it didn't involve a timeturner. 

There were paradox limits on those tidy little hour glasses, in compliance with the International Wizarding Consortium’s statutes. Limits that ensured a time traveler only _did_ things that he or she was always going to have _done._ And for unknown reasons, those paradox limits did not allow temporal dislocation beyond a few hours.

Hermione was _fifty three years in the past._

Ipso facto, she had not traveled by time-turner, she was vulnerable to paradox, and the June 18th she’d come from did not— and might never, at least according to chaos theory— actually exist. 

The future, ladies and gentlemen, was up for grabs.

But Hermione was hardly a character in those sci-fi movies her dad loved, the ones where the actress had such amazing arms. This wasn’t _Terminator._

The ICW had long since created sensors that detected a time traveler acting with even the _intention_ of impacting the course of history (or, and apparently this was much more common, cheating at gambling). Heroic or callow, to the ICW, motivation was irrelevant. The law revolved not around crime, and punishment, but contagion, and _containment._

Hermione had absolutely no desire to be executed, or kissed by a Dementor. 

She bit down hard on her lip and flipped to the next page. The limiting conditions of her continued existence...

  * Stay in the past, growing older every year
  * Avoid attention: appear to have been born in 1926, not 1979
  * Live as a private citizen of the current moment
  * Avoiding the impulse to consciously + deliberately redirect the currents of the historic future



Goodbye, fantasy of a world where No-One-Knew-Who— 

Hermione’s pencil skidded, almost ripping the surface of the paper.

How old _was_ Voldemort? Had he already left school? It would be the piece de resistance, to run into a would-be-dark-lord at Hogwarts—

Hermione had been so focused on her catch-up work when they finally unpetrified her at the end of Second Year. She’d really just wanted to forget, about the Chamber of Secrets and the snake and Tom Riddle’s entire existence. And her talent at memorization never resolved around specific dates— and, oh for heaven’s sake, if things went from bad to worse and she did encounter a proto-Voldemort— when exactly did he master Legilimency?

_Avoid eye contact with Tom Riddle._

That might need to fall under a more general subheading. 

Would deliberate efforts to _preserve_ the future she’d come from— to ensure the Potters made the switch to Peter Pettigrew as Secret Keeper, ie, so that whatever happened when Harry survived the killing curse repeated itself— 

Everyone said that Professor Dumbledore was a Great Man. 

Hermione agreed. But being a Great Man did seem to involve a lot more prioritization of the abstract Greater Good than you’d expect from an educator’s duty of care. The number of times Dumbledore knowingly put students— put _Harry_ — in danger...

If Professor Dumbledore happened to read Hermione’s mind, and decided that the history that led to her future was drifting off course and required a few nudges to ensure certain elements repeated themselves— wouldn’t that _also_ trigger the Timeline Manipulation Detection System?

Yes. Much better to list it as _Avoid Eye-Contact with Powerful Legillimens_ and then put specific examples underneath. 

The shadows were long and her fingers were cramping around the stubby remains of the pencil. Hermione organized her notes into a neat pile and sighed. 

Logic dictated snapping her wand. 

It would just be _so much easier_ to avoid setting off the IWC’s alarms if she pretended she wasn’t a witch. 

She’d have to mock up some official paperwork first — a ration card, identity documents, a death certificate for her non-existent parents? — but that only led into argument #2.

Muggle Britain had a population of millions, thrown into chaos by years of war and mass evacuations. One more displaced, injured, parentless young woman would hardly be worthy of note. 

A similarly situated young witch, on the other hand, would stand out to a dangerous degree. 

They called it the Wizarding World, but it was more like a geographically scattered, majority senior citizen, distressingly gossipy _village._

Amongst the purebloods and the halfbloods, everyone knew everyone else's great-grandparents. Or their mums and dads had been dear friends or terrible enemies back at Hogwarts, or their families were intermarried. Fleur Delacour and Bill Weasley were simultaneously third _and_ seventh cousins— even the students from _Beauxbatons_ had more connection to Britain's wizarding society than _'that clever little muggleborn,’_ Hermione Granger.

Living the rest of her life as a muggle would be the least risky option.

It made logical sense.

But— Hermione buried her head in her hands. If five years of friendship with Ron and Harry had taught her anything, it was that life couldn't be lived by logic and reason alone. 

She was trying, desperately, not to think about them. 

A week ago, trading curses with Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries, Hermione’s heart sung above the fear, soaring with a glorious certainty. _For Harry’s sake_ — she was ready. She was willing. If the cost was her life, then she would pay it gladly—and now it didn't even _matter—_

She was never going to see Ron or Harry again. 

Just like she would never re-read the well-worn bundle of letters from Viktor that she’d been collecting all year, wrapped in ribbons at the bottom of her trunk. 

Never scratch Crookshanks' ruff in just the right spot and enjoy the chest-deep thrum of his satisfied purring. 

She had lost her _parents,_ and there was no chance of _fixing it,_ of bringing them back _after the war—_

Hermione had been robbed of her entire world. 

She refused to give up magic, too. 

***

Tom could not deny that he had largely ignored the students in other Houses during his first five years at Hogwarts. 

It was easy to do. Houses barely shared any classes leading up to OWLs. In the core curriculum, History of Magic was the only subject that even included double sessions. 

Still, the complete _unfamiliarity_ of the tired-looking witch whose thick, frizzy braid had just smacked Olive Hornby on the shoulder was enough to catch his attention.

"Watch it, Granger," Hornby's voice tended to carry. "That pelt on your head is a menace. Ugly, _mudblood_ ‘Puff—”

And that explained it. Tom had been too busy establishing himself amid the elites of the wizarding world to waste attention on a _Hufflepuff,_ much less a dirty-blooded one. 

Tom put the girl from his mind and glided through the throng of a roomful of witches and wizards deciding where to sit in the first all-House, NEWT-level class session of their Hogwarts careers. 

The unfamiliar mudblood— Granger, Hermione— was in the Slytherin-Hufflepuff section of NEWTs Charms, too. Just like Transfiguration, she mastered the spell only a few minutes after Tom himself, well ahead of the bulk of the class.   
  


On Monday, at the end of the first lesson for Arithmancy, Professor Murray spelled Granger’s solution up on the board. 

She'd utilized a proof Tom didn't know _—_ Murray complimented her for keeping up on the field with outside reading, apparently that little trick was quite cutting edge— but even disregarding the extra-curricular shortcut, her work was... tidy. Concise. _Elegant,_ even.

At least four steps shorter than Tom's own solution. 

In Ancient Runes, that afternoon, the mudblood was the one of the only students who didn’t succumb to post-lunch languor as the lecture droned on and on. She sat, stiff backed in the last row, dutifully taking notes and ignoring the surrounding whispers and paper-airplanes until the bell rang and Professor Fairsaidh hurried to chalk their reading assignment up on the board. 

Granger was _not_ in All-House NEWTs Divination on Tuesday. And even after the crucible of the OWLs, enough Slytherins were opting to pursue Defense Against the Dark Arts that Merrythought scheduled a Slytherin-only Practical for Tom’s first session— which meant no data on whether Granger was enrolled in DADA, too.

Wednesday: the mudblood’s crown of braids was a mess despite the early hour. Curls pulled free and sprang in every direction, emboldened by the warm, humid air of the greenhouse. 

Of course, Hufflepuffs did seem to have a talent with plants. They must have made up two-thirds of the students in Herbology— but still. Five— or more— NEWT level classes, when Nott, Lestrange and Rosier were the only other Slytherin Sixth Year boys who’d signed up for more than four?

“We knew Granger was a bookworm,” Kenneth Edgecombe admitted, after Tom managed to direct the Ravenclaw’s attention to the mudblood, two benches to their left and struggling to penetrate a snargaluff’s thrashing, thorn-studded branches. 

Granger’s benchmates were watching her battle, but none of them lifted a finger to help until she jerked back from a particularly aggressive vine. And almost... crumpled. She was sagged against the potting bench, white at the lips, though it didn’t appear the thorns had actually made contact—

“She’s always studying. I don’t think she's looked up from a book long enough to make a single friend in the last five years.” Edgecombe sneezed, and rubbed his nose on the back of his hand, smearing his face with dirt. “I know everyone says Hufflepuff’s the hardworking house, but apparently Granger’s enrolled in _seven_ NEWTs classes. I wouldn’t believe it. if Jenny hadn't heard it direct from Flitwick—”

Edgecombe sneezed again, and fished a grotty handkerchief from his pocket. “And Granger’s a muggleborn, too.” He blew, loudly. “It’s going to be a bit of an embarrassment for us Ravenclaws, if she actually manages to juggle the coursework for an entire year—”

 _Seven_ NEWTs classes. Tom had convinced Sluggy to let him enroll in eight— and he had his prefect duties, too— but he was _special._

Between the rest of Herbology and lunch, Tom was confident he’d collected every opinion and fact the Hogwarts student body held on the subject of one academically distinguished Hufflepuff Sixth Year mudblood, female. 

It made a very short list.   
  


1) Granger’s parents were gone.

  
“I guess Hermione is an orphan, now. I never really thought about it. Just like you— oh, _Tom,_ you're so _brave—_ ” Pearl Delaney was stroking his arm and gazing up at him wetly which, thank you, _no.  
  
_

2) Granger was extremely studious.

“All she ever does is read.” That was repeated by absolutely everyone.  
  


3) The professors who’d taught Granger in prior years were fond of her.  
  


But it was a vague fondness. None of the slavish devotion Tom prided _himself_ on inspiring in his instructors.  
  


4) Granger had no friends.  
  


But she’d never been bullied. Not even teased. In fact—  
  


5) No one told embarrassing stories about Granger.  
  


His followers didn't even bring back the usual _'oh, in third year a misaimed jinx turned her hair blue, that was so funny,'_ or _'remember that time she laughed and pumpkin juice came out her nose?'_ In five years, it seemed, no one observed anything remotely humiliating involving the mudblood at all.   
  


6) Granger had no romantic history.   
  


No serious attachments— and also no flirtations. No crushes, if such a thing could be believed— neither as subject nor as object. Even the biggest gossips in the school couldn't recall a single boy pining over her.   
  


“Which, once you start to think on it— rather a surprise.” Rosier had been the last of Tom's followers to report back, and was now poking doubtfully at the remnants of the steak and kidney pie. 

“The hair's a bit of a shock, definitely— but a wizard could get used to it. Almost fetching, actually, sort of a... messy, curly thing—” Rosier gave up on the pie, reaching for the perpetual platter of wholemeal-and-ham sandwiches. 

“And the face is tolerable. Might even be pretty, if she got a good night’s sleep—” Tom nudged the pot of mustard closer and Rosier nodded thanks.

“Spent a few hours in the sunshine—" Sandwich suitably doctored, Rosier stuffed the entire thing into his mouth. "Shtopped looken like she's aboud to keel ober—" swallowing, he turned to stare at the upper Hufflepuff table. "Bit impressive, actually— speaks well for wizardkind. No one's debased himself rolling around with that little slip o’ mud—” 

The warning bells started to chime, and Rosier grabbed two more sandwiches off the platters before they could disappear. "Can’t imagine Granger’d be hard to win over, either. Probably gagging for it, if no one’s ever given her the time of day—”

Tom was almost ready to abandon his fascination completely.  
  
According to the Hogwarts student body and a sampling of instructors, Granger was probably the _least_ interesting, most _un_ memorable person to ever exist.

But— _seven_ NEWT classes.

And Rosier might be right. About the face, if not the hair. 

Tom spotted Granger almost immediately. She was in the back-left corner of the Potion's dungeon, struggling to stabilize a wobbly-legged cauldron. Steeling himself, he directed Rosier, Avery, and Nott to find seats on their own, and sauntered towards Hogwarts’ most boring lacuna.

“Pardon me, but are you holding this spot for anyone?” It was his most suave tone, and Tom smiled as Ganger’s fuzzy head shook _'no.'_

“I’m Tom Riddle, Slytherin. I don’t think we’ve ever been properly introduced.” 

“Hermione Granger.” She sounded distracted, still looking down as she smoothed out her parchment and rearranged her pot of ink. “Hufflepuff.”

It was a thrilling lesson. 

Sycophantic gregariousness aside, Slughorn was an excellent lecturer. The potion, once they began brewing, represented a significant step up in difficulty from anything they'd done in prior years. 

The precise timing required Tom’s full concentration. He tried to tune out Rosier and Nott's voices rising from the other side of the room, squabbling over a spilled jar of doxy eggs. 

By the time Tom cleaned his station and turned in his vial, the quarrel had escalated and expanded: Avery was slipping in pointed comments about the age of Rosier’s sister’s fiance. Tom tried to referee, but the argument continued. Once they were back in the common room, first Lestrange and then Mulciber ended up pulled in as well. 

By dinner, Mulciber was refusing to speak to Avery. Lestrange sniped at both of them, Nott looked pale and hadn't touched his food, and Rosier was sitting next to Druella at the Fifth Year's end of the upper's table. Sulking.

Back in their dorm-room, it took two bottles of Lestrange's smuggled firewhiskey and all of Tom’s patience to finally patch things up.

Friday, Tom sat next to Granger again, in the back row of Ancient Runes. Her gaze switched back and forth between the blackboard and the parchment for the full ninety minutes, never glancing in his direction. 

That night, the clouds opened up. The rain lightened to a drizzle for a few hours on Saturday morning, then turned back into a downpour that sustained itself for the rest of the weekend. The library filled with chattering voices and the smell of wet wool, as cooped up students grew bored of their common rooms. 

It took some searching to locate Granger: her distinctive hair was almost hidden by stacks and stacks of reference books. The table on which she'd placed her barricades was far from the fireplaces but right beneath a large, rattling, rain-smeared window. 

She didn’t notice Tom’s approach. After reading a few titles off spines— all potentially useful for the upcoming Transfiguration essay— Tom swung his bag down decisively and pulled out the opposite chair.

“Mind if I join you? It’s just that you’ve done such a good job of gathering all these authors _I_ was hoping to consult—" He quirked his lips into a smile. "It only makes sense to combine our efforts—” Granger was already looking away. 

“Although, I do say,” Tom was _prattling._ “Would you mind moving to another spot—” 

She was gathering her papers.

“I’m positive that window has a leak—” 

Granger had finished stuffing her bookbag. She was surging to her feet—

“You’re welcome to the lot— I’ve just finished—” 

She practically ran out of the room. 

Another week into Granger’s bizarre avoidance, Tom considered the possibility that the mudblood was simply extremely shy.

To test the theory, he resumed his former spot in the center of the classroom when they all filed in for Arithmancy. 

But he looked back during pairs work and—

Granger's head was shaking in mock dismay over Ethelbert Prewett's litany of excuses. "I've been so busy with Quidditch, y'know. Running tryouts, and now I'm drafting the practice schedule..." Prewett grinned, spreading his hands wide. "Honestly, I just fall asleep, when I try to do the reading—”

“Well,” and Granger’s lips were twitching, she was holding back a smile. “Lucky for you, Gryffindor Captain, _I_ have my priorities straight. No, I'm not going to let you copy off me— don’t frown!— but I'll walk you through the steps.” 

Prewett looked smug, and Granger’s finger waved in playful admonishment. “Just this once, though. Don't think you can use Quidditch to get out of doing your work all term.” She smiled. “Once the team's calendar is set, do you think you might want to draw up a timetable for studying? Revision, too— exams are only nine months away— I can show you mine, if you’d like—”  
  


Who was this _brazen hussy?_

Tom was not going to permit a _mudblood_ to avoid him and only him. 

Tom was the Heir of Slytherin! 

Granger should be falling over herself at the honor of receiving even a _moment_ of his regard. 

Tom’s plan crystallized in the Great Hall over a large breakfast of kippers and poached eggs. He would take advantage of the chaotic, collaborative environment created by the dangerous plants in Herbology, and bloody well _force_ Granger into an interaction lasting longer than fifteen seconds. 

By the time Tom was finished shaking his robes loose of the drops of mist that had condensed on the fabric during the walk to the greenhouses, however, a chattering flock of Hufflepuff girls had colonized all possible work-benches within ten yards of his target. 

Tom tried, once instruction was over, to sidle through the throng. 

Officious little Margery Bones intercepted him halfway. When Tom explained that he was hoping to borrow a watering can, Bones practically shoved her own pitcher into his arms, spout-first, and glared him back to his own work-station. 

"Riddle, I'd like a word with you."

Avery snorted in surprise at the interruption to their leisurely stroll to the Potions dungeon. 

"What do you want with Tom, 'Puff?" Even though Obadiah Smith topped him by at least an inch, Rosier’s heavy-lidded eyes made it appear that he was looking down at the taller boy.

"Can't I talk to a fellow Prefect?" Smith's chin was jutting out in response to Rosier’s interjection, and Tom preferred to avoid the attention that would come of allowing his followers to put Smith in his proper place.

"Wait for me down the hall," he directed, voice cool. "I’m sure it’ll just be a moment."

"Well?" Tom arched a brow. "I know Slughorn’s a soft touch, but I won’t be late to potions."

Smith exhaled audibly, shuffling his feet. "Look, Riddle,” he sounded nervous. “I know you’re the most popular student in the school. And you could probably have any witch you want, old boy— but Granger’s clearly uncomfortable. As Prefects, y'know, we need to set an example—”

“Did Granger ask you to warn me off?” Tom's eyes were narrowing. “Because if she implied I’ve done anything _inappropriate,_ that’s a _lie._ I’m just trying to get to know one of the cleverest witches in our year." His lips curled into a smile. "It’s one of the perks of NEWTs classes, isn’t it, _old boy?_ That the top students get crammed together, regardless of house.”

“That’s true...” Smith sounded confused, “inter-house relations are very important—”

“Mmhmm. Precisely. So." Tom's smile had disappeared, his voice was edged with menace. "What, Smith, exactly _did_ Granger say about me?”

“Granger hasn’t said anything—” Smith was starting to blush. “It’s my Margy. And the other girls, they’ve been talking— they’re thinking that— I mean, yes, Hermione’s a swot if there ever was one. And she’s a mudbl— I mean, a muggleborn, too. But—”

Smith gulped a breath and hurtled on. “The Hat put her in Hufflepuff, didn’t it?” His shoulders straightened, his chest puffed out. "And Hufflepuffs— well! Hufflepuffs _look after_ our _own_." He deflated slightly. "And I’m the boy Prefect for Sixth Year— so Margy figured that if anyone was going to bring it up to you, it should be me, you know, man to ma—” 

Tom raised a hand, cutting the ramble off mid-word. “Smith. Smith, my _dear_ chap. Didn’t we _just agree_ that I haven’t done anything that would mean your precious Hermione needs _looking after?"_ He arched a brow. "Inter-house cooperation. Those were your own words, my good man. Isn’t that right?” 

Smith nodded tentatively. He looked confused, and Tom had to suppress his urge to laugh. “And now,” he made his voice silky. “You’re going to tell that little witch of yours to stay the bloody _hell_ out of my business, aren't you, _old-boy."_ Tom smile was lazy, eyes at half-mast. "And if you and Bones are very, _very_ lucky, one day I might even forget this conversation ever happened.”

Smith looked like he wanted to melt into the floor. “Understood, Riddle." He gulped. "Thank you— you’re exactly right." Gulped again. "Everything’s sorted now. Obviously Marge was just imagining things, how could you ever do anything wrong? You’re _Tom Riddle_ —I’m sorry to hold you up, I'll just be on my way—”

Tom let himself chuckle quietly, at the sight of Smith hurrying down the corridor like a scolded house-elf. But by the time he had rejoined his followers his brow was furrowed in thought. 

It might be time to explore alternative stratagems. 

***

Hermione tried to keep busy.

It had been a risk, recording seven Es— it felt too audacious to give herself Os, when she would never actually know her true test scores— on the forged letters with her OWL results. But if she had scaled back her longed-for Sixth Year schedule and ended up with even more free time, Heremione was certain she'd have already gone quite mad. 

As it was, despite the distraction of upper level classes, and the challenge of learning so many new names... in the month of September, 1943, Hermione was wretchedly unhappy. It was worse, perhaps, even than the July and August she spent almost exclusively in the muggle world.

Hermione’s would-be maternal grandmother had not been prepared to suddenly receive custody of a (non-existent) English relative’s newly-orphaned daughter. 

Unfortunately, a witch’s age-of-majority would not be lowered from nineteen to seventeen until ‘73. Hermione recalled the various headaches resulting from Harry’s lack of Hogsmeade permission slip, and concluded that going sans loco parentis, for more than two years, did not successfully balance convenience against risk. 

Thankfully, when the Auror sent to interview her in Saint Mungo’s started to fill out his incident report, the automated bureaucracy of the Ministry of Magic helpfully identified Clotilde Judith Eugenie Sarfati — the one-day Mrs. John Wheeler — as Hermione’s most suitable next-of-kin. When Hermione examined the paperwork she’d snatched, the report not only included Grandma Wheeler's maiden name but her current age (twenty-four-years, two months, eleven days), preferred hot beverage (café noisette), and a residential address in London’s East End. 

After she finished deciding on a direction for the rest of her life, Hermione lingered at the bomb site for an additional two days. The rubble-strewn empty lot’s proximity to Diagon Alley provided cover for her underage use of magic as she carefully forged her muggle antecedents. 

When the fake documents were as good as they were going to get, Hermione temporarily transfigured her hospital gown into era-appropriate muggle attire, burned all of her notes, shoved her robes into her bookbag, and cast a quick point-me charm before gingerly setting off on the four kilometer walk to Shoreditch. 

A slender young woman with Hermione’s own hair and a familiar pair of eyes arrived at the indicated flat. Hermione crossed her fingers on Ministry detection and cast a low-powered _confundio._

The magic use was an essential risk. It glossed over the exact details of their family connection and suppressed curiosity about Hermione’s odd lack of personal belongings. Not to mention the sanguine acceptance it created for the astonishing announcement that Hermione was a witch, and would only need house-room temporarily, as she was bound for magical boarding school in the fall. 

Grandma— “Call me Tilda, all my English friends do— and you and I are not so far apart in age, ma petite cousine, much closer to souers than mama and daughter—” was too busy with her day job and her friends and her volunteer commitments to pay much attention to her new ward. 

It was a situation that suited Hermione perfectly. Tilda rustled up enough linens to make a bed on the narrow chaise-lounge, and Hermione spent the rest of the summer napping, convalescing, and grieving in the dusty, sunny, small front room. 

At twilight, raised voices disturbed her endless doze as the flat's three tenants and their crowds of friends went back and forth in the kitchen, extending their meager suppers with spirited analysis of actions taken by the ‘CBF’ and ‘WJC.’

Occasionally, Hermione could rouse herself enough to investigate the books and reports —those in languages she could read, at least— that spilled off the front room’s shelves to line the baseboards of the walls. 

Once Tilda, Deborah, and Ruth left for their workday, Hermione crept out to eat her portion of porridge and idly pursue the scattered pages of the _Times_ and _Jewish Chronicle_ and _La France Libre_ that blanketed the kitchen table. When she'd finished with both the grim news and the gluey, lumpy paste, she’d make an attempt to tidy up the constant disaster of the kitchen before again retreating to her makeshift bed. 

Now, Hermione was back at Hogwarts. 

Down the lower slopes of the mountains, the scrub and mosses had turned a russet red. 

Rain fell. When the sun broke through in the mornings, great gusts of mist billowed off the surface of the lake. The wind blew, crisp and cool, and the air smelled of wet grass and earth and peat smoke. 

It was autumn, and Hermione was back at Hogwarts. Back at school, and back in the magical world. But though the geese called, and the nights lengthened, Hermione’s misery hung in a constant cloud.

She had felt moments of satisfaction, during the first few days of term. 

It was a real accomplishment, and a lot of work, to pull off an infiltration of Hogwarts. Then the initial flurry of frantic activity faded, leaving only humdrum, stressful existence. Hermione’s triumph could not survive the endless trudge of classes and meals and lonely, friendless hours.

Hermione always assumed that wizarding birthrates decreased during Voldemort’s first ascendency. In _Hogwarts, a History,_ the annual student intake figures showed a precipitous drop beginning in 1984 and shrinking progressively for the next nine years— but it still gave Hermione a jolt, to enter the Great Hall and see twelve tables instead of the expected four. 

More students meant more memory charms. 

At least the larger House sizes meant almost no shared-House lessons prior to OWLs— she'd concentrated her modifications almost exclusively on Hufflepuff, targeting just a few of the most gossipy and bullying students in the other houses to add verisimilitude. Junior Professors, too, were required to handle the increase in sessions that resulted from teaching each House solo. It wasn't until Sixth Year that the Department Heads, such as Dumbledore, took over instruction— she'd be a new student either way, to all of her teachers.

And in such a large school, it was much more probable that a bookish student could, after five years attendance, still have formed no meaningful connections. The false memories Hermione inserted were little more than shallow impressions, backed up with changes to the grading and attendance records.

Class sizes aside, though, life at Hogwarts was eerily consistent with Hermione's prior experience. It was not just the stone walls that had stayed the same, and the familiarity was especially unnerving after adjusting to wartime austerity in Shoreditch.

The sturdy black wool gowns that comprised the uniform had not budged above ankle-length. They were still generously cut, loose and flowing. After her shopping trip to Diagon Alley, Hermione compared the used garments she'd bought at the Rag-and-Bone to the robes she'd been wearing when she fell back in time. To her, they looked completely identical.

Tilda, coming home from work to find the front room draped with piles of black cloth, turned all four robes inside out and joined in Hermione’s examination. She’d quickly identified differences: visible vs invisible stitching along the seams, a change in the construction of the yoke, even the weight of the thread used in piecing each garment together all counted as apparently obvious variations. 

Hermione weighed the chance of exposure by subtle tailoring against the two knuts that were all she'd managed to hold onto from her portion of the Hogwarts Charity Stipend. She came down firmly on the side of attempting to return one of the Rag-and-Bones’ robes. There was no telling what the year would bring, in terms of unexpected future expenses. 

Tilda, who assumed Hermione was trying to conceal a less fashionable clothier, grabbed her mending bag and unpicked the label with the maker’s stamp from the rejected garment, swapping it for the tag on Hermione’s better-fitting future-robe. Then, folding the spurned garment with quick hands, Tilda idly commented on the worn fabric’s approximate value in muggle London's black market. Even with the goblin's unfavorable exchange rates, the resulting clandestine sale still earned Hermione almost double what she had paid for all three used robes.

And the constancy of magical fashion extended beyond clothing. 

Muggle women might be cutting their hair shoulder-length or shorter and wrapping their heads with kerchiefs in response to shortages of hot water and shampoo, but the girls at Hogwarts were unaffected by austerity. Young witches grew their hair long, and wore it loose, or in braids. Ribbon-tied plaits dangled halfway down their backs, and twined around their heads like crowns. 

They were timeless styles, fitting for a society that hewed much more closely to the medieval than the modern. The smattering of muggleborns amid the First Years— and in the gargantuan intakes of the '40s, muggleborns formed a tiny minority indeed— were already abandoning their pin-curls and investigating potions to speed the growth of their bobs. 

Yes. 53 years in the magical world, and it was mostly the faces that changed.

The damage from Dolohov's curse, which pained Hermione to an almost unbearable degree when her potions ran out in the beginning of July, did not seem to be finished healing. It hurt, constantly, although more than three months had passed since the injury. 

As long as she was careful it could almost be ignored. Not much more than a dull, throbbing, ever-present ache. But when Hermione coughed, or laughed, or spent too long slouched over a desk, or moved her upper body suddenly, in any direction— the dull pain flared into twisting waves of agony.

Hermione fantasized about visiting the Hospital Wing when discomfort made it hard to sleep. 

But there had been that article in the _Prophet,_ after she broke out of Saint Mungo's. Somewhere, a record containing the hints of her asynchronous emergence remained— Hermione couldn't risk doing anything that would draw links between the girl who’d been found in the Department of Mysteries and her fragile new identity.

At least her physical discomfort was a distraction from her loneliness. 

Hermione still searched for red and black hair every time she walked through a doorway. She half expected, when she turned her head, to see Ron or Harry standing by her side. It became a relief to trudge into the Hufflepuff Common Room at the end of each day: a space that she had never entered, _before._

She’d asked for Ravenclaw, when she placed the Hat on her head. 

According to _Hogwarts, a History,_ sorting was the ritual that finalized enrollment, leading to a bed in the dormitories, and the protection of the castle, and automatic House Elf laundry services. Hermione broke into Dippett's office first thing upon arrival and it was a good thing she hadn't put it off— she'd have had to redo all the charmed memories in light of the Hat's surprising decision.

_Perseverance, devotion, such a personal sense of responsibility entwined with your belief in justice— and once you determine that action is required in a given situation, your pragmatism is impressive indeed! You're really quite ruthless— it's so much more interesting to Sort at this age._

_Yes, Miss Granger, you’ve matured a great deal since you first met that other me, haven’t you? You’ll never doubt your own courage again—_

"I was actually hoping for Ravenclaw, not Gryffindor? You did consider it, before—"

 _Gryffindor? No, my dear, Gryffindor is a house you’ve quite outgrown. And while you’ll always love knowledge and learning, it’s not your cleverness that defines you. In this day and at this age— yes. You are most definitely a_ HUFFLEPUFF!

As the month drew to a close, however, Hermione had to acknowledge the fact that the Hufflepuff Sixth Year girls were really just — _exceedingly_ _nice._

She’d wondered, when she settled on a past as a friendless bookworm, if she was making herself into a prime target for bullying. The Luna Lovegood of '43, that sort of thing. And she was still so lonely. She was incredibly lonely, but it was a profound relief to face nothing worse than sublime indifference.

Lately, though— it was beginning to appear that at least a few of Hermione’s dormmates were coming to a conclusion that five years of remembered disregard were not a good reason to _continue_ ignoring their erstwhile housemate. 

Margery Bones, the Sixth Year Girl's Prefect, appeared to be leading the charge. 

Hermione was certain Bones had been whispering at Clodagh Ogden, just a few minutes before the taller girl hesitantly invited Hermione to switch parchments and critique each other’s essays for Charms. 

Margery certainly chivied Rhoda Macmilan, who was closest to Hermione when the wind tangled her scarf with a gorse bush, to “stop standing there like a useless lump, and help the poor witch free herself!”

When Hermione skipped breakfast for the library three days in a row, Pearl Delaney greeted her in Transfiguration on the third morning with a napkin-wrapped bundle. Inside the heavy cloth was a fried egg sandwich — formed with two pieces of actual, _white_ bread toast. After accepting Hermione’s bewildered gratitude, Pearl positively flounced over to Margery. She’d claimed the coveted seat next to their Prefect with what could only be described as smug satisfaction. 

The Hogwarts kitchens were blessedly unaffected by muggle Brittain’s rationing and shortages when it came to eggs, milk, and meat. There was plenty of butter in the mashed potatoes, too, and crisp cracklings on the pork— although Hermione often had too little appetite to properly appreciate the abundance. But while wizards also seemed to have additional sources for sugar and wheat, they were still making do with less than ideal amounts. It was nothing like London— but the white bread toast went fast, in the mornings, and after that the racks refilled with despised National Loaf.

It was all small things. Nothing on the order of lying to a professor, or knocking out a mountain troll— but still. Hermione seemed to be acquiring _chums._

And then there were the Slytherins.

Hermione just about died of panic, when the would-be Dark Lord decided to sit next to her in their first Potions class.

Thank goodness Riddle ignored her after their initial introduction. 

Hermione had still been so frazzled that when they started brewing, she missed adding the jaberknoll feathers for the eleventh step.

When her potion failed to fade to blue and she realized the error, she’d flipped frantically through the textbook looking for substitutions. It was already far enough into the brewing period that she wouldn't be able to complete in time, if she started over. 

The work-around she’d pieced together required doubling the doxie eggs, and grinding the jabberknoll feathers to a fine powder, then sprinkling both ingredients after the second boil. The final results were within the range of acceptability described in the instructions, but she’d been graded at only an eight-out-of-ten on the vial.

And Riddle was in all of Hermione’s classes except for Defense Against the Dark Arts.

For almost two weeks, he kept choosing seats near her. 

He found her in the library, too. 

He wanted to consult the books she had pulled down, Riddle said the first time— after that, he just kept sitting down at her table without giving any reason at all. 

It reminded Hermione of Viktor, which made her giggle, hysterically, and then she’d started to sob into her pillow and it took her ages to stop. But Riddle was obviously not working up the courage to ask her to the Yule Ball— that dance, thankfully, was exclusively a Tri-Wizard Tournament tradition.

Hermione knew, intellectually, that avoiding eye contact and rushing away from apparently innocuous overtures did not fit the description of low key, discrete behavior.

But every time Riddle came near her, Hermione’s heart started to pound in her ears. When he actually opened his mouth and tried to start a conversation, the hair stood up on her arms. Her mouth went dry. In those moments of panic her mind couldn’t think any further than getting away, as far away as possible, as fast as she could. 

After three library encounters, she came up with the idea of doing most of her studying in the Room of Requirement. It was quiet, and the bookshelves it filled to her specifications were decently provisioned. 

Of course, sometimes the Room couldn’t source the book she needed. 

When that happened Hermione woke up early the next morning, and went to the library instead of breakfast. Or she forced herself to eat a few bites at lunch or dinner and then hurried off to spend as much time as she could in the stacks, reshelving her gathered references only when other students started to trickle in post-meal. 

It was the long walk from the seventh floor to most of her classes that gave Hermione the idea for another possible RAT (Riddle Avoidance Technique): if she tarried long enough to risk being late, she could probably consistently arrive for lessons after he had already chosen his seat. Surely he wasn't so determined that he'd actually _move_ to be nearer to her—

Tardiness went against all Hermione’s instincts. But sometimes sacrifices had to be made.

Luckily for her attendance record, a miracle occurred before she'd put her newest RAT in practice: suddenly, like turning off a tap, Riddle appeared to lose all interest in her existence.

It started just a day after her birthday and it was the best— really, the only— birthday present Hermione received. 

She hadn’t expected anything from Tilda. They’d only known each other for a little more than two months this summer, and though Hermione mailed a letter to say she’d arrived in Scotland safely, Tilda had not yet taken advantage of the return address— a postal box in Dornie from whence muggle missives were directed to Hogwarts and Hogsmeade— to reply.

And Hermione had no other family that knew of her existence, no friends— there was no one else, no one in all the world to care about the fact that Hermione Jean Granger was turned seventeen. 

Hufflepuff House did, to Hermione’s surprise and delight, have an arrangement with the House Elves for birthdays. A bouquet, placed on the recipient’s bedside table during the night, while the castle slept. 

Hermione savored the sight of the blossoms in the chilly grey pre-dawn light, while she redid her braids and Stuck them around her head. With Herbology in the morning and Potions in the afternoon, she didn’t want to risk her hair getting into anything. Her sticking charm never seemed to work as effectively as the incantations the other girls used, but she could always tidy things up a bit when classes broke for lunch. 

Shoes on and bookbag packed, Hermione stopped to give the bouquet another appreciative sniff before tiptoeing out of the sleeping bedroom.

The Room of Requirement had not been able to provide the source she wanted to cite in her DADA essay. The passage, if she was recalling it right, fit her argument perfectly. So perfectly Hermione was prepared to spend a solid amount of time searching the Restricted Section before she gave up and assumed she was looking for a text whose publication date fell sometime in the upcoming fifty-three years. 

That bouquet might have been a catalyzing element in the Hufflepuff girls’ friendliness, actually— Hermione was wished a happy birthday repeatedly, when she made it to breakfast. 

In polite attempts at conversation, there’d been several followup questions regarding her birthday gifts— apparently a watch was traditional, when a witch or wizard turned seventeen. 

Hermione scrambled to come up with a response that gestured towards the fact that she had recently lost her parents, and then implied, without outright saying, that her new guardian, as a muggle, was so impacted by the severe shortages caused by the muggle’s war as to make gift-giving impossible. It had the advantage of being technically true, and it avoided the implication that Hermione was so loathsome even her own family didn’t care for her. 

But the Hufflepuff girls, to a one, looked taken aback. Even concerned. 

When they departed, collectively and with no apparent signal, from the table several minutes before the bells rang— like a flock of birds, suddenly lifting off the lake— Hermione was ensconced within their cheerful coterie. She’d not been left in proper peace for the rest of the day.

The company had been really quite nice. Tom Riddle’s disinterest, which continued for the rest of the week, was an immense, stress-lifting relief. 

Unfortunately, Hermione didn’t seem to be able to avoid attracting attention from future dark wizards for long. With hindsight, in fact, the start of their interactions coincided perfectly with Riddle’s sudden abandonment. 

A condescending, unwanted comment, while the class practiced non-verbal Bird Conjuring in Transfiguration.

The sleepy eyed boy must have overheard the advice Hermione was hissing at Pearl on her _Avis_ spell, because he interjected with contrary suggestions. They were based in a disproved theory on the importance of mental pronunciation in non-verbal casting and they were just so, obviously, wrong— Hermione could not help firing back. 

The boy— ”Domhnall, but call me Donnie”— defended his point, and their volley continued until Dumbledore wrapped up practice to hold forth on their upcoming essay assignment. 

Then, in Charms, Domhnall wandered over to inspect Hermione’s five flying sets of knitting needles. He’d complimented her, but he’d also referenced _Agapanthea on Animation—_ and they were off again.

They kept sparking at each other, in both casting-heavy classes. Donnie was in Potions, too, but there was less freedom to move about that room after the lecture finished, when you were tied to a cauldron. And in every class, he chose his seat amid the clump of young men that orbited around Riddle. 

But it seemed like half the Slytherin Sixth Year boys did that. 

And Donnie sat at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall— he was definitely, undeniably a Slytherin—but—he was never cruel. Incoherent, maybe— sometimes Hermione thought he said things just to wind her up, but that was when his eyes sparkled the most. If Donnie was playing a joke, it wasn't on Hermione. He assumed she was in on it too. 

Hermione didn’t actually realize her new acquaintance was someone she’d heard of, in the future, until Clodagh casually greeted him by surname when he came up to start an argument about _quintessence_ with Hermione, while she and Clodagh were in the library finalizing their essays for Charms. 

Why oh why did the professors memorize faces so quickly, and stop calling out names for roll?

Domhnall ‘Call-me-Donnie’ was _Domhnall Rosier._

Rosier, one of the Death Eaters from the ambush at the Department of Mysteries. 

Rosier, who’d supported Voldemort in the Dark Lord’s first rise to power, been banged up in Azkaban for a decade and a half, and escaped after Voldemort’s return.

Domhnall Rosier, brother of Draco Malfoy’s grandmother Druella— Domhnall Rosier, Draco Malfoy— and Auror Tonks’— Great Uncle. 

And Hermione had been at the point of considering him a _friend._

At least Rosier didn't have the ability to read her thoughts, when she'd braced her hands on the desk and glared at him, listing all the ways that he was wrong, wrong, wrong about transubstantiation— Legillimens were said to be exceptionally rare—

It was too late to panic.

And maybe.

Maybe Hermione needed to stop viewing everyone around her through the lenses of her future experience. 

It was early October, 1943. 

When Hermione could manage to get any of the common room's wirelesses to pick up muggle radio channels, all the BBC's _Home Service_ covered was the slow progress of the Allies, grinding away at Italy.

At Hogwarts, Dippet occupied the Headmaster’s office. Dumbledore’s fame amongst the students was not related to dueling the far-off Grindelwald, but his penchant for assigning inscrutable essay topics and his impenetrable—possibly, inconsistent—grading standards.

In Hermione’s timeline, the first Voldemort War began in the early 1970s.

Possibly, she had been oversimplifying. Could Hermione really assume that call-me-Donnie was identical to the man that he _might_ become, over the course of another _thirty years?_

Example A for this argument: the incongruities between Tilda-in-’43 and Hermione’s memories of Grandma Wheeler.

Two months— two days!— with Clotilde Sarfati, age 24, were enough to establish her fierce attachment to _mere patrie._ She was sickened by Occupation and she longed to return to Paris as soon as she safely could. 

The Clotilde who’d given birth to Hermione’s mum was Mrs. John Wheeler, married to a RAF pilot originally from Norfolk. After Warrant Officer Wheeler demobbed, the young couple moved to East Dereham to be near Grandpa's parents as they tried to start their family. Grandma, as far as Hermione knew, had never set foot on French soil again. Not once, not even for a visit— and then she’d died, when Hermione was nine.

Except for the accent, you’d almost have thought Grandma Wheeler was English born and bred. 

And that didn't even touch on the Jewish thing.

Hermione’s mum, Helen Wheeler, had been raised COE. 

Mr and Mrs Wheeler— Jack and Clo, that’s what Grandad had called Grandma, Clo, not Tilda— took their young family to church on Sundays. Not every week, but not just Christmas Eve and Easter. 

Hermione’s mum had adopted an agnostic, secular-humanist world view as soon as she hit her teens. She'd refused to continue attending services, but Uncle Simon and his wife, Aunt Mary, actually went to church _regularly._

It was very awkward, when the Grangers visited Norwich for a long weekend. Aunt Mary always tried to get Hermione and her parents to come along.

Tilda— now, Tilda wasn’t _frum._ Not in comparison to Deb and Ruthie, the other girls who shared the Shoreditch flat. 

On Friday nights, Tilda mixed up the words to say over the candles with the words to say over the bread. She barely spoke Yiddish. Although that might be a French thing, she was also just starting to learn Hebrew under Rav Kaplan’s patient instruction. When it was Tilda’s turn to do the shopping, she went to whichever butcher had the shortest queue.

Deb and Ruthie made a lot of teasing comments about _La Juive_ and how _egalite_ had led to _l’assimilation_. The punchline was that Tilda’s stabs at piety had more to do with Rav Kaplan’s handsomeness than higher principle. But _being_ Jewish, whatever that meant beyond religion— it mattered to Tilda. Mattered deeply. 

And that couldn’t be said about Grandma Wheeler.

Hermione’s mum hadn’t even known that some of their extended family — Grandma’s father, and her older sister Hélène and Hélène’s husband, and their little son, who would have been mum’s cousin— had been killed in the Holocaust. Not until the Grangers went to France, the summer before Hermione turned thirteen. 

They’d stayed with Great Aunt Adeline at her apartment in _Le Marais_ for their two weeks in Paris. It made Hermione’s father happy, because it saved a fortune in hotel fees. And Adeline and her life-partner, frail, kind Tante Marie-Jeanne, pulled out the family photo albums and walked Helen and Hermione through their French relatives. Grandma and Adeline’d had a brother, too— Simeon, he was the second youngest, between Clotilde and Adeline in age. A partisan, killed by people Adeline called the _milice_ — 

_(When,_ Hermione wondered, now, exactly did Great Grandpa Sarfati and Great Aunt Hélène and Great Uncle Simeon die? Were they already long gone, or were their demises still pending? 

Hermione had heard Tilda descend into hopeless weeping, more than once, when she spoke of the family she’d left behind in France. Tilda was sick with worry, but she hadn’t gotten news for months—)

Hermione dragged her mind back to Domhnall Rosier.

Perhaps he wasn’t yet the Death Eater of Hermione’s future. 

But he was still— was already?— a terribly bigoted pureblood chauvinist. 

The things he’d said about muggles—

Not meant as insults, just… taken for granted facts. Accepted truths, casually alluded to in conversation. Rosier didn’t really see muggles as _fellow human beings._

When Hermione reminded him that _she_ was muggleborn, that her parents had been muggles and she had spent the first eleven-and-a-half years of her life thinking she was one, too— Rosier looked like a fish. His mouth worked soundlessly at the cognitive dissonance. He always seemed to try to forget about Hermione’s blood status as fast as he could.

Not that prejudice against muggleborns was uncommon in 1943. 

It was much more obvious— or at least more blatant— now, than it had ever been in Hermione’s own time. 

In 1943, _mudblood_ was less polite than _muggleborn,_ but lots of people, not just Slytherins, still said it. 

Hermione’s housemates said it. 

Hufflepuffs!

Just a few days ago, Rhoda Macmillan followed Hermione into the toilets after DADA and offered to show her the modified Sticking Charm some of the other girls used on their hair. Hermione’s braids had slipped from their position during the hour and a half dedicated to casting non-verbal jinxes, and were now dangling over her left ear and straggling down her back. 

“It’s good your wearing it up more,” Rhoda murmured, as she helped Hermione tidy and rewrap her plaits. “You’re seventeen now, we can’t run around like maenads forever, however much we might wish it. But your hair’s so thick, the standard charm is never going to be enough.” 

Rhoda kept her hands pressed against Hermione’s head, holding the braids in place as she talked her through the incantation. 

“Longer on the swish, and then pull up just _barely_ for the flick. I’m surprised your mother never showed you this— but oh, I always forget! You're a mudblood....” She’d dropped her hands to squeeze Hermione’s shoulders, turning Hermione to face the mirror, admiring her successful result. “There you go, nice and neat! You look as pretty as a picture.”

If Hermione could grit her teeth through Rhoda’s ‘mudblood’ and focus on the other girl’s kindness.... maybe she could continue her burgeoning friendship with Rosier— with Donnie— too. 

**

Rosier looked at Tom like he was crazy, when Tom told him to befriend Granger.

“What is up with you and that mudblood? I swear, old-boy—” and then he’d caught the expression on Tom’s face and inclined his head in a graceful half-bow. “Your wish is my command. My lord.”

The Warren girl’s death last year had been an unfortunate accident. 

Tragic, even, and thank goodness Tom had found a scapegoat so that the matter could be laid to rest and Hogwarts remain a school. But considering the _respect_ he’d had finally gained from his housemates, when he proved his status as Slytherin’s Heir, Tom still couldn’t completely regret waking the Basilisk and opening the Chamber.

Tom did not give Rosier any further instructions. 

Frankly, he wasn’t sure _what_ the best approach would be. 

Granger had been so _skittish_ around him. 

He wanted to see what Rosier would come up with. 

And whatever antipathy Granger felt towards Tom could be crossed off as extending to Slytherins in general: she was soon happily bickering with Rosier in Charms and Transfiguration, and even agreed to meet up with him in the library to collaborate on essay-research a few times. 

Tom hovered on the edges of their conversations, listening-in as much as he could. Trying to figure out just what it was about the mudblood that made her so fascinating.

Rosier’s reports were not especially helpful.

“Granger’s really frightfully clever, Riddle— she can talk circles around me, I swear. Half the time I don’t even know what I’m saying." He grinned. "I just say something, because it’s so much fun to wind her up. She practically started frothing at the mouth when I told her that Hatwick’s Principle of Transitivity was a syllogism—” 

He sighed, mournfully, around a mouthful of cornish pasty. “Apparently syllogism doesn’t mean what I thought it did. I do wish I’d taken Arithmancy with you and Granger back in Third Year, rather than doing Care of Magical Creatures. Divination’s well enough, but there’s a reason I dropped Creatures as soon as I got my OWL—”

The bit about Granger’s childhood friends was more interesting.

“She had these two pals, growing up. Muggle blokes— Ron and Harry. Very close to them, our Hermione." Rosier paused. "Bit odd, actually, when you remember how much trouble she's had, making connections here at Hogwarts. But Harry and Ron— she's saying those names every other word, if I can manage to work her up enough to get her going.” 

Rosier sighed, bemused. “Anyway. They stayed friends, even after Granger found out she was a witch. Always popping off to Ron’s house, when she went home over the holidays. And Harry would be there, too...”

“Would?” Tom leaned forward. “You're talking about all of this like it's in the past, Rosier. What changed?”

Rosier shrugged. “I dunno, Riddle." He spread his hands. "But Harry and Ron are gone now, that's for certain. I’m not sure if they’re dead or just… not around anymore. Muggles do seem to die rather a lot.”

Rosier's nose was wrinkling. “Hermione’s parents, too— but you knew that. Anyway, she refuses to even touch on whatever it is that happened to Harry and Ron. Every time I try to ask she just gets all quiet and sad. Last time, after she mentioned Ron she started _crying."_ He shuddered. "You should have seen Bones and Ogden, Riddle, the way they were glaring at me— a wizard'd think those ‘Puff witches are so sweet and nice, but their eyes were _scary.”_

Rosier stared into the fire, and then he brightened. “Maybe it has something to do with that war the muggles are having?” 

He crossed his arms behind his head and leaned back, basking in the heat of the crackling flames. “Hermione says the muggle’s war has been going on for _years._ She says their army is made up of most of the men in Britain and a quarter of the women, too— it sounds absolutely _barbaric,_ doesn’t it? Apparently the fellow on the other side is a real rotter—”

Tom closed his eyes. He resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. 

He envied his wizard-raised housemates their pure upbringings. 

He did.

What a blessing, to grow up free from the muggle's taint! 

But sometimes even Slytherin’s Heir couldn’t help but find the sheer fucking _obliviousness_ of the pureblood and halfblood witches and wizards that surrounded him rather tiring. 

“Hermione says this Hitler has to be stopped, whatever it takes.” Rosier’s normally sleepy eyes were opened wide. “She says he rounds up everyone he considers undesirable when he takes over a country. Civilians, I mean, not soldiers. And then he just kills them! Hermione says the death count could end up being millions, literally _millions_ of muggles—” 

Rosier’s head was shaking with disbelief. “I thought she was just using a turn of phrase. You know, Riddle. Like when Grindelwald took over the Austro-Hungarian Ministry, back in the ‘teens. The way everyone talks about it, Grindewald slaughtered hundreds. Butcher of the Old Empire, all that rot. And Binns said the actual death toll was only seventy-three.” 

Rosier’s voice fell to a whisper. “Hermione kept saying no. She told me, for this Hitler chap, it's really, truly millions. _Tens_ of _hundreds_ of _thousands_ of muggles, dead. Just wiped off the earth. Not even using spells. I can’t imagine—”

Rosier had to have gotten turned around by something Granger'd said.

Tom tried to pay as little attention the muggle world as he could, but he was sure that even the _Nazis_ weren’t capable of such an immense slaughter. 

Some of Rosier’s observations on Granger were excruciatingly mundane.

“Hermione keeps wincing— I think she must have horrible cramps.”

Tom grimaced at the mention of _feminine difficulties,_ but Rosier was dauntless. 

“I'm going to ask Dru— her cramps are really bad, last year she’d have to stay in bed, even, when she was at _that time._ Standard pain potions didn’t do much. But this summer Mother found a specialty mix at the apothecary, and it has Dru right as rain."

The next day, Rosier found Granger in the library. He was bloody _whistling,_ as he deposited a potions vial on top of her pile of books. 

Rosier’s voice carried in the hush of the stacks: “My sister swears by this, says it helps every time.”

From his seat two table’s over, Tom watched Granger squint at the bottle in confusion. Rosier at least had the decency to lean in to whisper his further clarification, and Granger looked at the vial consideringly before shrugging and knocking back a swallow. 

For perhaps the next hour, it seemed to be working. 

Tom hadn’t realized how tense Granger’s face always looked, until the muscles around her mouth softened. The little divot between her brows went away. 

After she picked up a dropped quill, she swung her upper body around, as if enjoying a release from stiffness— she was practically beaming.

But when Tom finished his Ancient Runes translation and switched to Divination homework, he noticed that Granger had gone still. She was holding herself stiffly. Even from two tables away Tom could see the sweat, beading on her upper lip. 

Tom started packing his bag to go after Rosier. 

What had the boy _given_ her? Was this some kind of prank? Tom did not want the attention that would attract, aimed at his little group of friends. And Rosier really seemed to be developing such a genuine fondness for the mudblood— 

Two tables away, Granger gagged. She was so pale her skin looked green— and then she leaned over, and vomited onto the floor. 

By the time Tom reached her, she’d managed to vanish the mess. 

The smell still lingered.

Tom hovered in genuine concern. “I really think you had better go to the hospital wing, Granger. That can't be good.”

“It’s fine, Riddle. I’m feeling much better already, I promise. It must have been something I ate—” 

Apparently food poisoning was the trick to getting Granger to voluntarily interact with him. 

Tom insisted on conjuring a glass of water. After Granger accepted it, he resettled himself at her table, just two chairs down— “where I can keep an eye on you.”

And she let him stay, setting her jaw and smoothing out her parchment as she took constant, tiny sips from the conjured glass.

He should have taken it as a sign, Granger permitting such close proximity. 

It wasn't more than five minutes later that her eyes rolled back in her head, and she toppled off the chair in a dead faint.

Granger came back to consciousness halfway to the Hospital Wing.

Once she realized what was happening, she squawked so much that Tom ended the _mobilicorpus_ and let her test her feet. 

She could walk, slowly, with his arm around her to provide support. As the corridors stretched on, she leaned into his embrace almost gratefully.

Master Derwent was occupied with two Fifth Years who’d been dueling in the corridor, so it was the Trainee, Hygea Smethwyck, who greeted them in the ante-room and handled Granger’s intake questionnaire.

“Food poisoning wouldn’t make you pass out.” Smethwyck frowned. “But I’ve never heard of anyone reacting to a Cramp Unction like this, and it's really being used quite widely— Hermione, dear, do you happen to have the bottle still on you? Maybe it was contaminated in some way...”

Tom went very still as Granger searched through her bag. 

Surely if Rosier had sabotaged the potion, he’d been smart enough to make it look an accident. Rosier couldn’t be so stupid as to poison the mudblood in a way that would get _caught—_

By the time Granger retrieved the vial, she was breathing shallowly. Panting, almost.

A moment after handing the bottle to Smethwyk, her face twisted and she leaned—

Smethwyck recognized the signs, at least. The Trainee Healer’s wand was out and a basin lifted off the shelves and flew into place, catching the sick before it splashed onto Granger’s robes. 

When Granger finally finished retching, Smethwyck summoned the basin back. 

She glanced down at the contents, beginning the wand movements required to vanish the mess. 

And then Smethwyck paused. She frowned. 

When Tom peered to see what had grabbed Smethwyck’s attention, Granger’s vomit was sloshing in swirls of crimson red, studded here and there with knobby clumps of glistening, gleaming black.

That couldn’t be good.

“MASTER DERWENT!” Smethwyck surged to her feet.

“I need you RIGHT NOW— we have an unattributed case of HAEMATEMESIS.”

Tom leaned against the wall in the main infirmary room. He was attempting to blend in with the tapestry as Derwent started his diagnostic spells.

The Healer’s scowl turned thunderous almost immediately. 

“Young lady, this is _not_ some unexpected side effect of a fairly common potion! You were _attacked,_ sometime within the last six months—you’ve been cursed by extremely dark magic!”

Granger’s chin dipped in a tiny nod. 

Tom’s brows shot up. 

This went against everything he thought he knew. What _exactly_ had Granger been hiding?

“Did this happen at Hogwarts?”

Her head shook— no.

“How _did_ it occur?” Derwent’s hands settled on his hips, and he was looking down his long nose at Hermione. She was still pale and sweat-soaked, trembling slightly, and she didn’t appear to be in good enough shape to take a scolding. 

“Miss Granger, this really should have been reported to the Ministry at once. I know that muggle baiting is still unfortunately common, but for a muggleborn to be caught up in it— and a curse with such debilitating consequences— I can’t imagine the Aurors would turn a blind eye. Hygea, can you head to the Owlery, we should contact the DMLE immediately—”

Granger’s mouth moved soundlessly. She coughed, and a mist of blood splattered in red drops against her neck and jaw. 

Smethwyck hesitated in the doorway and then bustled back, offering Hermione a handkerchief.

“Thank you,” Hermione croaked. She dabbed at herself, and her chin set mulishly. “There’s no point informing the Aurors, Master Derwent. I was outside the Ministry’s jurisdiction when the attack happened.”

“Outside the Ministry’s jurisdiction—” Derwent sounded bewildered.

A moment later, he sighed. “Don’t think I’m letting this go, young lady. You’re going to tell me all about it once we have you patched up—” Derwent summoned a hospital gown and gestured for Smethwyck to help Hermione change into it, swishing the curtains shut around her bed. 

The healer dusted his hands together, and then his gaze landed on Tom. 

“Ten points to Slytherin, Riddle— you certainly did the right thing bringing Miss Granger here. But your young lady deserves some privacy. On your way now, you can come back to visit tomorrow.”

Tom did not visit Granger in the hospital wing. 

Rosier did. Daily, right after dinner.

She was apparently healing well, and extremely eager to catch a glimpse of the class-notes that Derwent had forbidden anyone to bring her in an attempt to force her to rest. She had absolutely no interest in candy, which fact Rosier reported in high dudgeon.

“Those Hufflepuff girls must have given her half a Honeyduke’s shelf and she barely touched any of it. But she wouldn’t share either, she told me acid pops would ruin my teeth!” 

Rosier’s voice went high in imitation. “‘There’s nothing worse for your enamel than sucking on sour candies, Donnie,’— have you ever heard such rot? It’s a terrible waste, you know how the prices of sweets have gone up—"

Arriving for Friday’s visit, Rosier learned from Smethwyck that Hermione had been discharged just a few minutes prior.

When he reported this fact to Tom, Tom convinced Tabitha Perkins— definitely one of the easier-to-deal-with girls in the Hufflepuff Sixth Year Gang— to pass a message from Rosier onto Hermione. Hermione emerged from her common room in search of class notes, and Rosier nobly squired her to the library. 

Then he installed her, according to plan, in a squishy armchair tucked away by the rearmost fireplace. 

“This is really impractical,” Granger’s voice was rising. “It’s much easier to study with an actual table—”

“You’re not here to study.”

“Not here to study? Donnie, I’ve missed almost a week of classes! You just said you’d let me look at your notes—”

Rosier crossed his arms across his chest and glowered. 

“Hermione, you just vomited blood and then spent four days flat on your back. After I gave you my sister’s _cramp potion._ You owe us an explanation, here!”

Hermione’s head nodded frantically. “Right. Right, there’s this thing called endometriosis? It’s when the endometrium, that’s the lining of the uterus, ends up growing in other places.”

She fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve, as if embarrassed. 

“It’s a fairly common thing, it just happens, naturally, to some women, and then the menstrual cycle causes the cells to become inflamed— and when I took that potion, well, it turns out I have quite a lot of misplaced endometrial tissue, and it reacted badly—”

Granger was lying. 

She lied very well. 

If Tom hadn’t always been able to tell, when people told falsehoods— and if he hadn’t explicitly heard Master Derwent say to Hermione that she’d been attacked, cursed by dark magic— he’d have backed off immediately at words like _womb_ and _menstruation._

Rosier had a sister, though. Rosier was dauntless.

Even without knowing that Hermione really had curse damage, he glanced back at where Tom was standing in the shadows of the stacks, checking on the veracity of Granger’s words.

Tom took this as his cue to emerge. 

“Hello, Hermione.” 

Rosier stepped back, half-perching on the arm of Hermione’s chair. Surrendering the spot directly in front of the mudblood to Tom. 

Tom squatted, bending his knees until he could look Granger directly in the face. 

She was staring down, eyes locked on the fingers twisting in her lap. 

Beyond her shoulder, Rosier’s voice was triumphant. “You’re going to tell us the truth now, Hermione! We’re not going to be put off just because you bring up _feminine difficulties_ — Dru told me that potion is perfectly safe for all witches, and Riddle always knows, when someone is lying!”

Hermione’s head shot up, twisting to look at Tom directly for a brief moment. 

Her dark brown eyes were deep and very clear.

Her gaze shot back over his shoulder. She was chewing almost frantically on her lower lip. 

“Tell when someone lies? That sounds like mind-reading — do you have any other powers related to telepathic magic, Riddle?”

Tom huffed in impatience. “No. Granger, I'm not the _Sorting Hat_. I can’t tell what you’re thinking— but Rosier’s right, I’ve always been able to pick up on falsehoods.” 

He leaned closer, bracketing her in as his hands wrapped around the frame of the chair, shaking it slightly. “So don’t think you’re going to blow us off with another neat little story!”

Hermione’s eyes swung back to Tom’s face, settled. The little crease appeared, right between her brows. “Do you detect the _attempt at_ _deception_ , Riddle, or is your power related to the _literal untruth_ of a statement?”

Tom’s jaw went slack with disbelief. Granger was bloody well stalling! Behind her shoulder, Rosier kicked the side of the chair in irritation. 

Tom tried to keep his voice smooth and calm. “Granger. How about you stop deflecting, tell us the truth— and once you’re done, I’ll let you run experiments on my little talent to your heart’s content.”

He leaned back slightly, lifting her hands out of her lap to wrap them in his own. Her skin was smooth and warm. 

Hermione jerked, a little, at the touch, but she didn’t yank away. 

“Hermione— tell me. _Please._ What the hell happened to you?”

Tom hadn’t known what he was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t this. 

“The summer before Fourth Year, I attended an international quidditch tournament that took place over the hols.” Hermione paused, and stared at Tom for a long moment. 

Over her shoulder, Rosier’s brows were jumping up and down as he tried to catch Tom’s eye. Tom shrugged back, baffled, dipping his chin in a slight nod.

As out of character— and unrelated— as it sounded, Hermione’s abrupt statement was not _un-true._

“There was a Durmstrang student at the tournament, a Bulgarian.” She was looking through Tom now, eyes unfocused— caught up in memory. Her voice was almost a whisper, this must be the name of her assailant— “ _Viktor._ ” 

In the ringing stillness that had engulfed the library, Tom saw Rosier half-stand, reaching for his wand. 

Rosier was an idiot.

Did he think they could just stride off into Grindewald-Country and put paid to the wizard who’d injured Hermione, on the basis of a first name? It would take research, and time, and _planning,_ to concoct a suitable revenge—

Hermione’s lashes had drifted half-closed. They fluttered, slightly— sooty butterfly wings, hovering above her creamy cheeks. She was— she was _smiling,_ there were crinkles, at the corners of her eyes—

“I was reading a book on the care and keeping of dragons. Viktor asked about it, that’s how the two of us started.”

Tom’s mental landscape shifted, twisted. Tried to realign. 

He could just picture Granger reading a book at a sporting tournament. Her curly head would be bent over the pages, and when everyone cheered she’d look up, those long lashes blinking with surprise—

“At first, I thought Viktor was nothing more than a muscle-bound idiot. Only interested in Quidditch, girls trailing after him.” Hermione’s hand pulled away from Tom’s grasp, lifting to her mouth. Teeth dented the knuckle of her forefinger. “I wanted him to go off and leave me in peace. But it turned out he was actually so clever, and funny, and really exceptionally _kind_ —” 

Her thumb pulled down on her bottom lip. “Do you know, he told me that he thought I was pretty from the first moment he saw me. Me, the frizzy-haired muggleborn bookworm! I hadn’t even gotten my teeth fixed yet.” Her fingers were slowly brushing back and forth now, gently stroking her mouth. “And really, he was so decent about Harry—”

Tom struggled to piece it all together.

Rosier had said that Ron and Harry were Hermione’s mates since childhood. Her muggle chums. Not possible flames —just old friends.

Now this unknown Bulgarian, who’d told Granger she was _pretty_ — and Merlin, what a pallid, insipid phrase— this trite, sports-obsessed Continental wizard had been put in a position to distinguish himself by being _decent about Harry?_

Had Granger been dabbling with one of her _muggles_ in addition to dallying with this Viktor? And to think, according to all of Hogwarts, Hermione had no romantic history— the little cipher was turning out to be quite the cyprian—

“Once Viktor went home, we wrote letters.” 

Granger sighed again. She looked _dopey._

“Viktor writes beautifully. He would copy out whole passages from books, there’s a lot they stock at Durmstrang that you can’t find in the Hogwarts library—”

Rosier seemed to be choking on a laugh. 

“And the letters always opened with ‘My dearest, Hermione—’ with a comma, between the salutation and my name. Ron liked to make fun of Viktor’s accent but his written English, his grammar, that was excellent. I think he really meant to write it like that on purpose, that I was his dear one even though we were apart, and we didn’t know when we’d ever see each other again—”

Hermione was blinking rapidly. Her eyes were wet. There was a tear— a fucking _tear,_ gliding down her cheek— there was another one, she was really properly crying—

Tom wanted to destroy something.

Rosier fished in the pocket of his robes, pulling out a slightly grimy handkerchief. Gingerly, he waved it in front of Hermione’s face.

“Thank you, Donnie.” Hermione grabbed the piece of cloth and dabbed her eyes. “I’m sorry about saying you were incapable of any understanding, when you were being so stupid about Gamp’s Second Law. Clearly you can be capable of sensitivity in matters emotional— you’re really not so bad, Domhnall Rosier.” 

She smiled tremulously and resumed the story. “Anyway, Viktor kept asking me to visit him.” 

She blotted her nose. “But I never actually made it to his home near Patalenitsa.” 

Now she blew— it was quite loud, actually. Tom hadn’t known witches also blew their noses like that.

“I think the wizard who cursed me was Russian— or maybe a Czech. Definitely slavic, either way, based on what I heard of his name— and I don't know what happened to Viktor. I haven't heard from him since I woke up after the attack.”

Tom was thinking, thinking, thinking.

What exactly was the _timeframe_ on all of this? 

Hermione was upset. She was heartbroken, apparently, about losing contact with her _letter writing boyfriend._ But Tom would never accept such a muddled, incoherent report from one of his followers.

And—nothing Hermione had said had been _untrue_ . But did that mean it was _the truth,_ the full and complete answer to the questions he and Rosier had asked? 

Rosier interrupted Tom’s thoughts, moving rapidly from quivering disbelief into incandescent rage. 

“How can a clever girl be such an _idiot?_ Have you never heard of _Grindewald,_ Granger?” Rosier hopped up and started pacing. 

“And you just grabbed an international portkey, off to the Balkans! Nice spot for a holiday, in the middle of the Dark Wizard’s Greatest Empire— they don’t even allow your kind _admission_ to Durmstrang, Hermione—”

Her jaw tightened. “Grindewald was _expelled_ from Durmstrang, Donnie. And your own house founder wanted to ban muggleborns from Hogwarts!” Her hands were fists. “Have you forgotten about Salazar Slytherin’s _Noble Cause?_ Myrtle Warren died last year—”

Tom started to raise himself up. His knee popped. 

It might be time for a subject change. 

Hermione’s cheeks were pink, her eyes were flashing. “—Viktor might have been a Durmstrang student, Rosier, but he never cared about my blood status! That’s more than I can say for most of the witches and wizards at _this_ school—”

“Right.” They both turned, breathing hard, glaring at Tom for interrupting. He shoved his hands into his pockets, trying to affect an air of nonchalance.

“Hermione, thank you for being honest. Rosier—” Tom held his hand out, peremptory. “I believe you promised this witch some class notes?”

Rosier stomped to his bookbag and rummaged around, finally locating the stack of parchment.

Tom flipped through the loose pages. Rosier had excellent handwriting, at least— but Potions, Charms, Transfiguration, and DADA were the only subjects represented. Because Rosier was only doing those classes for NEWTs, along with Divination. 

Tom turned the parchments on their side, tapped them against his palm. 

“Hermione, what are you doing to catch up in Arithmancy and Ancient Ruins?” His free hand rose to the back of his head, ruffling his hair. “I assume the other ‘Puffs will help you out with Herbology, but you’re the only one in your house who continued with those electives past the OWL level— I suppose you’ll be wanting a look at _my_ notes next—” 

Hermione's voice was arch, her smile coy. “Let’s just say Bertie Prewett kept me up to date.”

Rosier looked confused. “Smethwyck searched my bag every time I visited you. She said she’d caught Ogden trying to smuggle you an essay to review, and all you were allowed was magazines. How’d Prewettt get class stuff past that harpy?”

“Mmm.” Hermione’s eyes danced. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” 

For a moment it didn’t look like she was going to answer further, but then she bust— “Bert charmed his notes! To look like the _The Witch’s Mercury,_ to everyone but me. It's actually quite advanced spellwork. Bertie used to made me think of Ron, you know, but really he’s much more like Ron's brother, Bill. The clever, handsome one....” Hermione trailed off, smiling to herself. 

“Hmm.” Tom shoved the notes at Hermione roughly, startling her back to the present. “Rosier’s not a bad notetaker, you’re going to do just fine in Charms. But Transfiguration and DADA will take more than reading some instructions to master. Meet me in the Great Hall after lunch tomorrow, and I’ll walk you through the spells we worked on while you were laid up.”

Hermione’s voice was tight. “I didn’t ask you to tutor me, Riddle—”

“You didn’t have to ask,” Tom interrupted. He smiled. This smile was warm on the surface, but underneath it was chill and sharp as ice. “I volunteered.”


	2. The Dove is Never Free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom arranged the tutoring session with Hermione because 1) she would need someone’s assistance, to catch up with the most difficult of the wand-waving classes, and 2) it would force her to continue interacting with him.
> 
> He did not expect to enjoy the experience.

Beneath the cloud-smeared, bright blue sky, the rain-washed world was sharp-edged and brilliant. Golden afternoon light warmed Hermione's hair and sank into the black fabric of her robes. The pooling heat was a delicious contrast to the chill wind gusting off the lake. 

A particularly fierce rush of air whipped tendrils of hair across her face and pulled Riddle's robes flat around his pacing form. Then the wind shifted and cloth billowed out, once again disguising the firm planes of his stomach and chest, the strength and stretch of his striding limbs. 

Riddle’s path followed the water line. The small gravel beach was a crumbling, root-snarled meter’s drop below the ragged edges of the sloping lawn and Hermione had hoisted herself up this scarp in search of a seat. There weren’t any convenient lake-tossed logs or large rocks interrupting the shallow crescent of pebbled shore—unfortunate, as the turf she sat on was rather cold and very wet.   
  


If Riddle kept up his pacing, he’d wreck his shoes. The toes flashing out below his hem were cognac-brown full-grain leather, formerly gleaming but now starting to scuff. 

Hermione wondered how Riddle came by his footwear. An orphanage could never issue something so elegantly expensive, and as a fellow subject of the Hogwarts Charity budget, she knew that no amount of sickle-saving would make those luxurious quarter-brogue oxfords affordable on Diagon Alley. Not even at the Rag and Bone. 

Hermione, serendipitously, had been wearing her least-favorite genuine-leather black loafers when she fell back in time. Deb had queued for three hours to buy each inhabitant of the Shoreditch flat a pair of non-ration espadrilles in early July, and Hermione enjoyed having a choice in footwear for the rest of the summer. But cloth-and-straw sandals would never hold up to Scottish weather— she’d left them behind when she packed for Hogwarts.

After a year of intermittent use and almost eight weeks of uninterrupted daily wear, the tread on the heels of Hermione’s loafers was starting to bald. Her tendency towards pronation also showed on their inner soles, but the uppers were in excellent shape. 

Tilda had packed a small jar with dubbin for Hermione to take to school, and either Deb or Ruthie slipped an almost empty tin of Kiwi Black into Hermione’s trunk when her back was turned. With weekly polishing, daily brushing, and crumpled paper stuffed in the toes every night, as well as more attention given to her stride and how she placed her feet, Hermione hoped she could make the shoes last through to the start of the summer. Maybe even into her Seventh Year. 

The annum-worth of clothing rations she conjured in June allowed the purchase of four pair new socks (1 coupon each), three sets cami-knickers (4 coupons each), one nightgown (6 coupons), and two austerely elegant, tax-free utility dresses (14 coupons total). Tilda, Deb, and Ruthie let Hermione borrow well-darned sweaters and shawls as the weather required, and the bare legs beneath her skirts didn’t matter anyway. When a girl had seam-lines up the back of her calves, in the summer of 1943, it was not stockings but the product of a steady hand with the eyebrow pencil. 

And with all of muggle Britain so committed to ‘make do and mend,’ the idea of faking five extra coupons just for the convenience of owning a second pair of cold-weather shoes felt impossibly selfish.

Maybe Riddle's luxurious brogues were a gift from one of his wealthy Slytherin friends.  
  


Riddle's lips were moving as he paced, gaze switching back and forth between the Defense textbook, balanced in his left hand, and the sheaf of his own notes that he clutched in his right. If he spoke, the wind snatched the words away before they reached Hermione.

Bored, she rummaged in her bookbag and pulled out an apple.

She’d had only a vague interest in food since falling back in time, but that had changed this morning. Hermione woke up ravenously hungry, and it seemed set to continue all day. She stuffed herself at breakfast, and her stomach still started grumbling well before noon. 

When the platters appeared for lunch, Hermione had thought of the long wait to dinner and tucked the apple away to save for later. Then she filled her plate with roasted sprouts and creamed potatoes and lovely thick slices of ham. 

She followed that first serve with a ladle of mutton stew, and a mound of butter-topped pumpkin-and-parsnip mash. And a little dish of strawberry-and-rhubarb preserves with a splash of cream for afters— rather tart, but still tasty. She was chasing the last streaks with her spoon and contemplating another mug of milky tea when Riddle strode up to the the Hufflepuff table to collect her, for the tutoring session she had hoped he’d forgotten.

Hermione was become a glutton, and her legs felt a bit watery and weak— four days of complete bedrest were probably the cause there— but there was _no pain_. 

No pain, no pain at all. 

Not an ache, not even a twinge. The end of discomfort was like putting down her bookbag after the final day of exams, like turning off a lawnmower and the sounds of the world suddenly pouring in. It made her feel dizzy, a kite with its string cut. Whirling and plunging in shocking, weightless release. 

Hermione wanted to run, as fast and as far as she could. 

She wanted to leap and to laugh with the joy of her new freedom in motion.

Instead, she carefully used her wand to remove the apple’s core and sliced the flesh into sixteen thin, even segments. One benefit of severing charms over knives: the pieces stayed perfectly pressed together, spherical in her lap even as she slid a narrow segment free and bit down on sweet, tart crunch. 

Riddle had paused. 

He was standing directly in front of her now, looking up, blocking the sun that had been hitting her knees. Hermione put her hand out, another apple slice balanced on her outstretched palm: “Do you want some?”

His handsome face goggled in bemusement.  
  


Riddle was not half bad as a tutor. Hermione had not expected that.

He could explain the theory behind the spells for self-transfiguration much more clearly and succinctly than the textbook, or Rosier’s fairly detailed notes of Dumbledore's lecture. Once her conceptual understanding was complete, he walked Hermione through pronunciation, visualization, and wand movements before finally directing her to combine all three together. 

And with the aid of a conjured hand mirror and Riddle’s continued guidance, Hermione shifted the colour of her brows and eyelashes all the way to Weasley-red in only six tries. Then she raised a small mole on her cheek, as a beauty mark— also surprisingly easy— and lifted and narrowed the end of her nose. Adjusting cartilage didn’t hurt, anymore than changes to skin or hair, but it was a much more difficult transfiguration.

Finally, grimacing from the effort and the odd, grinding not-pain, Hemione succeeded at transforming the shape of bone as well. It was odd to stare at her face and not see the slight bump on her nasal bridge, a smaller version of the dorsal hump her mother had— and Tilda, too. The family look.

Hermione admired her new, more conventional nose from multiple angles. She planned to do her eyes next— Harry Potter green— but Riddle challenged her to attempt the reversal of her current achievements via _non-verbal_ transfiguration, next, instead of allowing the changes to wear off naturally. 

Non-verbal was much harder. 

It took at least another hour for Hermione’s features to be, finally, entirely her own. 

Riddle looked her over carefully and then banished the mirror. His calm demeanor went with it— he was absolutely _crowing_ over Hermione’s apparently impressive progress. 

Gleeful, he disclosed that more than half of their classmates were still struggling with verbal hair-and-skin transfiguration, despite two sessions of Dumbledore’s instruction— and _she_ had transfigured bone! And then undone it all _silently!_ Dumbledore hadn’t even moved the class onto non-verbal practice, Riddle just suggested it because Hermione mastered everything else so easily, and then she succeeded at that too— he thought she was _incredible!_

Hermione resisted vanity. It was an apples to oranges comparison— Professor Dumbledore taught thirty students in the All-House Sixth Year session, and Riddle tutored Hermione alone. She had the benefit of one-on-one attention, and tailored instructions. 

But while that meant her so-called accomplishments were really nothing to brag about _,_ they did, in fact, reflect positively on _him._

Riddle was a good teacher. 

He was thoughtful, attentive, and a skilled communicator. 

And he couldn’t read her mind.  
  


That knowledge, that Tom Riddle was not (yet) a Legilimens, had been almost as much of a relief as the sudden lack of lingering curse damage.

Of course, it didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous. 

Riddle was extremely dangerous. She needed to remember that.

Last year, before Hermione’s arrival, he’d been involved in the death of Myrtle Warren. Hermione knew that Riddle was the one who really opened the Chamber of Secrets in 1942, and Myrtle had been killed by a basilisk. Not an acromantula. 

And whether that was accidental manslaughter or deliberate murder, Riddle definitely arranged for Aragog to take the blame— robbing poor Hagrid of his right to education! Expelled at the end of Third Year, without even the chance of sitting the _OWLs_.

Riddle was a _monster_ .  
  


The Hufflepuff upper-year table had been practically empty, when Riddle swung by to fetch her at the end of lunch. Hermione, with her stewed fruit, was the only Sixth Year girl still seated. 

Rhoda Macmillan and Godelina Robins were still in the Great Hall, though— over by the Gryffindor tables, discussing something with Howard Clarke. Howard was a Gryffindor Seventh Year, and another of Hogwarts’ rare muggleborns. 

Hermione knew Howard had muggle parents because every Tuesday, at breakfast, his personal brown owl brought him the copy of the _Sunday Express_ that they had finished reading. 

Howard was frantic to keep up with the muggle news: he had two older brothers. They were both infantry soldiers, fighting fascists in Italy. And Churchill might have dubbed the mediterranean Europe's ‘soft underbelly,' but that campaign was still a meat grinder: progress was agonizingly slow and the casualty rate soared extremely high. 

Hermione had only twice asked Howard if she might take a glance at his newspaper, once he’d finished it, before he’d started swinging by the Hufflepuff table every Wednesday morning and handing her the (by that point very creased and rumpled) sheets. 

He’d even brought the _Express_ to Hermione in the hospital wing, along with a number of clippings from the _Times_ — courtesy of Mrs. Liu, a WRN from Liverpool, via her daughter, Mary. Mary, muggleborn Ravenclaw Fourth Year, apparently received fat packets of selected articles almost every week. Mary’s father and uncle were in the Merchant Navy, and her brother and two cousins crewed submarines.

“We muggleborn have to stick together,” Howard announced to Hermione, grave and sincere. “These witches and wizards are so isolated— even the so-called halfbloods never meet their non-magical grandparents and cousins. No one at Hogwarts pays attention to the _real_ world, they don’t care about our war— ”

Hermione mentioned her trick for tuning a wizarding wireless to the BBC’s _Home Service_ broadcasts. It took an additional incantation, and the radio signal at Hogwarts was extremely patchy— but it was still better than nothing. 

Hermione did wonder, after Howard said he’d never heard of such a thing and demanded that she teach him the spell immediately, whether that charm, in her originating timeline, had an invention date later than 1943. Oh well. As Ruthie would say about the dinner dishes, _es art mikh vi di kats fun mitvokh_. Hermione cared like a cat cared that it was Wednesday.

Dean Thomas had been the one who showed Hermione how to do it. Dean was still following the footy— he wouldn’t give up the Premier League and switch his passion entirely to professional Quidditch until the word _mudblood_ started being thrown around so frequently in Second Year— and Hermione had been curious how he managed to keep up with West Ham’s matches. Much of her regret over remaining at school for the Easter Holidays came from the fact that she’d be missing live broadcast of the _Freddie Mercury Tribute Concert For AIDS Awareness._

Dean taught her the incantation as soon as she asked, so Hermione was surprised when, after dinner on Easter Monday, he joined her in the corner of the common room next to the wireless. The music crackled and popped, and often faded so much that she wondered if there was anything playing at all, but Dean stayed by Hermione’s side for the whole broadcast.

She remembers that the signal came through crisp and clear for the entire length of _Radio Ga Ga._ Paul Young was no Freddie, but Hermione and Dean both found themselves clapping along to the ‘ _all we hear is — radio ga ga’_ section of the song. 

The smack of Dean’s hands, in time with her own— a witch and a wizard, there in the Gryffindor Common Room, clapping along to a muggle song, performed by muggle musicians, a song written by a favorite band of Hermione’s muggle parents— and knowing that at Wembley Stadium, _seventy thousand_ muggles — seventy thousand _people_ — were doing the exact same thing at the exact same time— well, Hermione had quite unexpectedly started to cry. 

Dean didn’t act like she was weird. He just smiled at her, and leaned his head on her shoulder as the plaintive opening chords of _Who Wants to Live Forever_ faded into a long burst of static.

Hermione tried to show her thanks a few days later, joining Dean by the wireless for coverage of West Ham’s match against Man United. His Hammers beat the Red Devils, one to zero, and Dean seemed to enjoy the company immensely— even though Hermione did pull out her Charms homework midway through. It was hard to really care about sports, unless her friends were actively playing in a match.

So she did have the radio. Borrowing mailed-in newsprint from the other muggleborn wasn’t her only way to keep abreast of the war. But Hermione could hardly sit in the common room next to the wireless all day every day, even if the signal had been clear enough to understand. 

It was very _reassuring_ , to read a whole paper and know she was caught up on the biggest news of the week, even if that week was already fading into the past. 

Hermione did assume the Allies were going to win again.

A butterfly in China might flap its wings, but the Second World War was so immensely huge— it was surely too massive to be affected by the mere existence of one young witch who didn’t belong in 1943. Allied soldiers would still break through the German defenses on D-Day, and VE Day would arrive promptly on... Hermione couldn’t remember the date. May, or was it March? And 1945— or possibly 1946? How had they endured it, last time — the thought of at least another year-and-a-half, or more, of this wretched, wretched war….

Hermione’s primary school had focused on the Home Front, for history lessons. And she hadn’t been properly a part of the muggle world since before she turned twelve. She knew dozens of dates for Goblin Rebellions, but her understanding of WWII, before she landed in the middle of it, was largely a product of cultural osmosis. 

Reading _Carrie’s War_ and _Goodnight, Mister Tom_ ; watching _Bedknobs and Broomsticks_ and _Indiana Jones_ — and listening to her grandfathers’ stories. Grandpa Wheeler wasn’t the only vet in the family; her Granger grandfather had also served. 

Nana and Pop-Pop were several years younger than Tilda and John Wheeler— they were younger than Hermione herself, now, and that was a very odd thought— but Pop-Pop had convinced his parents to let him enlist soon after his sixteenth birthday. He turned eighteen just in time to ship overseas and land on Juno Beach in Normandy. 

Hermione’d known the broad details of the Holocaust, too. 

Evil Nazis, yellow stars, dead Jews. 

But the books and reports she’d found on the shelves of the front room in Shoreditch— all three volumes of _The_ _Polish White Book_ , completed in 1941, and 1942’s _The Mass Extermination of Jews_ and _The German New Order in Poland,_ and Zarembina’s _Auschwitz: Camp of Death,_ hot off the presses in its English translation when Hermione read it, summer of 1943— they left her sick and trembling and shocked to the core. 

The fact that the BBC and the non-Jewish newspapers rarely made reference to the mere _persecution_ of Jews in German controlled areas— much less touched on the fact that the Nazi’s _Final Solution to the Jewish Question_ was a series of horrifically efficient death camps — enraged her. 

In Shoreditch, Hermione’s righteous fury was greeted with surprise.

“Stop plotzing, bubbeleh,” Deb said. “What do you expect? These shkotzim blamed the Jews when people died in that bomb shelter stampede last March.” Deb’s voice was too tired to be bitter.

“The butcher is always washing vile graffiti off his shop window— and we’ve found anti-semitic stickers slapped on the door to this very flat.” Ruthie’s head shook in resignation as she spoke. 

Rav Kaplan took off his glasses to rub at the bridge of his nose. “When our leaders meet with the Allied governments, Hermioneleh zeiskeit, we are told that the Germans will laugh if this is branded a Jewish War: no special attention can be paid to the plight of our people. These ministers and generals tell us that all the Jews can do is hope for an Allied victory. And since no one will accept Jewish refugees, the goyim’s brushoff becomes the truth.” 

Hermione remembered how awful it had been under Umbridge last year. 

It was dreadful for everyone, of course, but once Umbridge appointed the Inquisitorial Squad, things were suddenly and specifically _worse for mudbloods._ And Hermione had never talked to anyone about it— Ron and Ginny would have told her she was imagining things, she was sure, and Harry wasn’t protected by his halfblood status— poor Harry was persecuted more than anyone. But there had been an unspoken fellow feeling, among the _mudbloods_ of the DA— sympathetic smiles and bracing grimaces traded between Hermione and Dean Thomas, the Creevey brothers and Justin Finch-Fletchley.

Hermione still assumed the Allies were going to win— but she was evermore invested in the progress and speed of the campaigns that would get them there. 

Sometimes, this war and all the horrors of the muggle world felt much more real and _important_ than anything that could ever happen at Hogwarts. 

When Godelina Robins spotted Riddle approaching the Hufflepuff table, over Howard Clarke’s strong muggleborn shoulder, she tugged on Rhoda’s wrist and gestured in Hermione’s direction. Rhoda turned to look and then arched a brow in silent query— ‘ _Do you need a rescue?’_

Hermione’s heart surged at the thought, but she made her head shake— _‘No.’_

Riddle had been frighteningly clear, in the library last night: his help was not an offer, not something Hermione could politely decline. She'd gotten the distinct impression that his response, if she refused to keep their appointment, would be much worse than anything she would suffer by going along with it. Hermione’s only option was to keep her head about her and try to wrap the tutoring session up quickly.

She put in a good effort at the beginning. She attempted to sidle away, after the ninth abandoned classroom they tried was host to yet another match in the Chess Club's first tournament. Lack of practice space was surely a valid excuse for bowing out.

"Riddle, you're beyond kind to offer to help me catch up, and I truly do appreciate how generous you’re being with your time—” 

Was _politesse_ just a waste of breath? Did Riddle-the-human-polygraph know that Hermione’s thank-you could not be further from sincere? But normal people saw through obligatory social courtesies as well; you still made the gesture— 

“—We've made it all the way up to the seventh floor, and all the empty classrooms have been taken. Finding a suitable venue seems to be impossible—" 

He had turned to stare at her and Hermione could feel her pitch rising, her words speeding together. 

"Obviously we can’t do active wandwork in the library or the Great Hall— and we're not in the same house, to kick the lower years out of a corner in the common room— I’m sure I can muddle through on my own!” 

She gasped a breath, rattled on. “Yes, that’s a plan— I’ll re-read the textbook! This isn’t a brag, Riddle, but I do have a bit of a skill for teaching myself spellwork from books, and this time I have Donnie’s notes, too— " 

That last was certainly true.

Limiting herself to the pace of classroom instruction hadn’t been a choice. Not with Harry facing _dragons_ in a tournament designed for students who'd completed three additional years of schooling. And Ron had been such a jealous idiot— it fell completely on Hermione, even more than usual, to do the research and study the results well enough to teach Harry what he'd need to know to keep himself alive through the First Task.

Not to mention her plans to protect her parents. Those spells, for precisely forged documents and the creation of false memories, were professional level, well beyond the scope of Seventh Year. And she’d mastered them entirely on her own.

Riddle did not seem to find her arguments for independent study convincing. 

His fingers closed just above Hermione’s elbow, pulling her along the corridors in the direction of the North Tower. Between Riddle’s longer legs and the speed of his gait, Hermione had to half-run or else be dragged. 

“We’ll go outside. The rain’s let up, it’s not too cold— we won’t even need to fetch our cloaks.” 

They plunged through the doorway and into the darkness of the tower. They were hurrying down, down the steep spiral staircase, the most direct route to the ground floor— 

Hermione’s heel slipped, sliding over and past the narrow, smooth ledge of the step. She was jolting forward, free arm flailing. Her fingertips scraped cold, unfinished stone— of course there wouldn’t be a banister—

Riddle’s arm stiffened as Hermione teetered. He was pushing back against her bicep with such force that her shoulder wrenched, catching her before she could complete her fall. He half-turned on the steps below her and shifted his grip on her arm, bracing her more firmly as she worked to slow her rabbit-fast breath. 

He still didn’t let go, when they resumed their climb down the stairs, but the pace he set was much more moderate. 

“We’ll do our practice on the shores of the lake.”  
  


And then—and then it was surprisingly enjoyable. 

Discussing Transfiguration with Riddle. The glimpses it gave her, of the way his mind worked. Being the sole focus of his fierce attention.

So enjoyable that Hermione quite forgot to try to speed things along or bow out midway through, even though that was surely the sensible thing to do.

Hermione did like to believe she was a sensible girl. Even a bit prim-and-proper— especially in comparison to Harry and Ron— well, to all of the Weasleys, actually, except for Percy—

Cautious, logical, pragmatic. 

Someone who cared about following the rules, and the social norms, too— at least when it came to everyday, mundane decisions.

When her actions weren’t related to saving Harry’s life, or standing up to government injustice. Hermione’d had to face some exceptional circumstances in the last few years, but surely a good statistician discarded outliers before drawing conclusions.

Hermione also remembered the thrill she felt, walking up the gangway of the Durmstrang ship to visit Viktor in his quarters. 

Not very big quarters— a narrow shelf of a bed with drawers for storage beneath it, a single, bolted-down hard wooden chair, a little table that swung from chains attached to the ceiling — but private. Private quarters for the Triwizard Champion, for Bulgaria’s Seeker. 

Frizzy haired, fifteen-years-old and never-been-kissed Hermione Granger, alone and unsupervised in a tiny room with an older boy. 

Alone and unsupervised with a _man_ — Viktor was eighteen, almost three years her senior. Not to mention that he’d been with the National Team for the past two summers, that he could have any witch he wanted and admitted to taking advantage of some of those opportunities in the past.

Hermione’s parents had been decidedly discomfited by the age difference between their daughter and her first swain, but no one in the wizarding world shared that reaction. 

Indeed, Professor McGonagall beamed every time she saw Hermione standing next to Viktor, for the entire length of the Yule Ball. And Bethany Partridge, the Gryffindor Seventh Year Girl’s prefect, popped into the Fifth Year dorm before that dance to congratulate Hermione on snagging a prime specimen like Krum. 

Then Bethany made Parvati and Lavender pause the work they were doing on Hermione’s hair, tugged Hermione behind the curtains of her four poster bed, cast a non-verbal privacy spell, and proceeded to teach her the complicated steps of a _contraceptive charm_. 

It had taken Hermione’s cowardly roommates at least half an hour to work up the courage to interrupt, and Bethany made Hermione cast and recast that entire time. 

“There are potions, too,” Bethany lectured as they sat crammed together in the close, dim space, “but the recipes aren’t publicly available, you can’t brew for yourself. And you’re underage— you’d have to ask him to make the purchase from an apothecary for you. The potions are reliable for every witch, that’s why most of us use them, but you’re so strong at spellwork— you’ll be safe with just the charm.” 

Bethany placed her hands on Hermione’s shoulders, shook slightly. “It’s very important to have the power to take care of these things for yourself, my dear. A wise witch never relies on the good will or good sense of her wizard.”

Hermione had not yet used that charm in practical application. 

At fifteen, she hadn’t felt ready to go so far, and Viktor was always a perfect gentleman about respecting her boundaries. But ‘none is poor save one who lacks knowledge’. Sexual health information was not a topic covered by the Hogwarts library, not even in the Restricted Section, not even obliquely. Another aspect of the wizarding world that perturbed her parents.  
  


They just talked, Hermione and Viktor, the first time she visited the ship. 

Drank cup after cup of hot, sweet, smoky tea, and nibbled on flaky cheese pastries, and talked for almost four hours. 

When Hermione realized the time she bolted up from the chair.

Viktor had insisted that she take the chair, when she entered his room. He squatted down on the edge of the mattress, solid thighs spread wide. 

Whenever Hermione said something that he found particularly enthralling, Viktor’s hands would pause in their standard gesticulation. His elbows would plant on his knees and his chin would perch on his fists and he’d slouch, so that he was gazing up at her. Sometimes she had to look away at those moments, his eyes were so dark and swallowing. 

When Hermione got up to go at the end of that first visit, Viktor surged to his feet too. His palm pressed gently against her lower back, guiding her the three steps to the cabin door, and the fingers of his other hand drifted up to her mouth, brushed at a crumb of pastry.

And then— quick, thrilling press of lip to lip— their first kiss.

The fourth time Hermione visited the ship, Viktor took the chair and she settled across his lap. 

His fingers worked their way under the hem of her robes as they talked. Eventually, they were drifting all the way from the knobs of her ankles to the downy, sensitive skin on her inner thighs— and then down again, and back up. Long, sweeping strokes interspersed with quick, teasing caresses, never venturing any higher. That conversation had been as much words as warm, clinging kisses.

The sixth, seventh, and eighth visits, Hermione bypassed the chair completely. She kicked off her shoes and sprawled on the bed. Viktor crouched above her, half-hovering— he was always afraid of crushing her, as they kissed and touched and talked. Her robes wound up in complete disarray every time but he never tried to take them off, even as he demonstrated all his skill with nuzzling mouth and pressing thigh and firm, strong, clever hands.

She hadn’t made it aboard the ship a ninth time. 

Cedric Diggory died and Voldemort rose and Viktor went back to Bulgaria. 

They’d made no pledges except for friendship, when they parted. But Viktor's letters were peppered with heated passages that Hermione flushed to read, that she re-visited at night in bed with a _silencio_ on the closed curtains. And it made her slick and squirming, but she did her best to respond in kind.

Viktor always signed off with an invitation for Hermione — and her parents— to meet his family and relatives, to visit his ancestral home. 

But the Death Eaters were massing and her parents were still quite dubious about this _older man_ and Hermione never made it to Patalenitsa. Not before Antonin Dolohov cursed her, and now she was never going to see or hear from Viktor again.

You could craft the most astonishing whoppers just using pauses and misdirection. Ron and Harry would have been so impressed by Hermione’s growing skill as a liar.  
  


Perhaps Hermione was less sensible than she liked to think.

She was certainly having trouble distinguishing the best path now. 

Was there even any _point_ in trying to get the tutoring session back on track to limited interaction, after she and Riddle had already spent so long working on Transfiguration? 

Hermione hadn’t even glanced at Rosier’s notes for Defense last night, concentrating instead on Charms and Potions— but it seemed that the DADA lesson she’d missed was an introduction to the Patronus Charm. 

Did ‘sensible’ in this context mean holding herself to the middle of the bell curve, pretending to struggle when Riddle taught her _Expecto Patronum_ as she had under Harry’s tutelage, back in the DA? Or was it wiser to wrap up Defense tutoring fast and demonstrate her current mastery? 

That way, there’d be no reason for them to continue interacting. Hermione knew she had done a rubbish job of aiming for average so far— did she really have much more to lose?

Riddle’s blunt fingernails scraped over the sensitive skin of her palm as he picked up the proffered apple slice. He slid it halfway between his lips, closed his straight white teeth, crunched down. 

Hermione couldn't help being her parents' daughter. Riddle wasn't just a fabulous teacher— he also possessed _excellent_ dentition.  
  


**  
  


Tom arranged the tutoring session with Hermione because 1) she would need _someone’s_ assistance, to catch up with the most difficult of the wand-waving classes, and 2) it would force her to continue interacting with him.

He did not expect to enjoy the experience. 

Tom had helped housemates with classwork before; those in his year and the years below. 

Study groups were how he’d first gained the loyalty of his little group of friends, back when all of Slytherin still considered him only dubiously half-blood and so uppity that he needed hexing to remind him of his place. 

Opening the Chamber last year proved Tom’s antecedents beyond doubt. Now the Slytherins treated him with respect due both to his noble ancestry and his own self, but he continued to help out when asked. It was part and parcel of being a Prefect, and Tom did enjoy having the power to take points and assign detentions. 

Tutoring _could_ be satisfying, in the alchemical moment when his student finally _got it_ , but the lead-up to that point tended was inevitably an exercise in irritation and tedium. 

Of course, Hermione wasn’t some dullard who couldn’t keep up with classroom instruction.

Hermione just needed a little assistance to catch up with the lessons she’d missed. Missed after blundering into a dangerous situation, letting herself get hit by a dark curse, and failing to seek proper treatment for a serious injury until interaction with Rosier’s potion nearly killed her. 

Such a clever girl. Much smarter, for example, than Alphard Black, who was struggling with switching spells but at least maintained a solid grasp on his Slytherin tendency for self-preservation.

Hermione’s frightening dearth of survival instinct aside— she defied all of Tom’s prior tutoring experience.

She was so focused, so eager to learn. It felt like she was drinking in every word. 

A little crinkle appeared between her brows, and her lips parted, ever so slightly— her lips were quite beguiling in these moments, they looked so soft and full— and she’d nod. Emphatically, like she agreed with Tom completely. Like she was committing whatever he had just said to permanent, life-long memory. 

When she did ask questions, their answers were never obvious. Tom found himself having to really think. And every time he tried to put his clarified understanding into words, Hermione _got it_ . Immediately. Her logic, her… understanding of the basic principles of the world…. it just _meshed_ with his, when all the Slytherins Tom had ever tutored floundered in his sea of metaphor and explanation.

But once he’d finished doing a last review of the material for Defense— because the Patronus Charm was bloody hard, Tom couldn’t get more than a gush of silver mist, and that put him at the top of the class— once he was ready, and Hermione had finished her _snack_ and hopped down from the lawn-edge, and they finally started back up again— 

Something was different. 

Hermione was still intent, still listening, but there was this _weighing_ quality to her gaze. It was as if she was comparing Tom’s words to something she’d heard before, rather than trying to learn from him. She didn’t ask a single question.

Her wand movements were flawless on the first try. Her pronunciation required no correction. Very quickly, Tom found himself giving her the go-ahead to match will with voice and slashing wand — _Expecto Patronum!_

And silver fog trickled from her wand-tip. 

Tom whooped, clapping his hands together. 

Tangible results on her first attempt! Hermione was as skilled in Defense as she was at every other subject. She really was the most impressive witch, it was no wonder Tom found himself fascinated. Such an excellent acquisition— but Hermione was not beaming with pride. 

She looked... disappointed. Affronted, even. 

Tom had never gotten the impression that Hermione was arrogant.

Rather the opposite, in fact. Usually she didn’t seem to appreciate her own specialness, she foolishly assumed the idiots that surrounded them were capable of rising to her and Tom’s level. Look at the constant debates with Rosier— and last night she’d called that lanky buffoon, Ethelbert Prewett, _clever._

Tom was also starting to detect a delicious tendency towards self-doubt in Hermione’s emotional makeup. The witch seemed to be absolutely terrified of failure, it was one of her driving motivations. And Tom had told her how challenging _Expecto Patronum_ was, that many wizards never mastered it at all. Had Hermione really… what? Assumed herself capable of producing a corporeal patronus on the first go?

Before Tom could investigate further, Hermione was casting again.

 _Expecto Patronum_ _!_ _Expecto Patronum!_ Her incantations flowed so quickly that Tom had no time to offer congratulations or advice. Damn, she would be thrilling to duel— Merrythought did sometimes arrange all-House combat sessions—

But despite, or perhaps because of Hermione's speed, there was less silver mist with each iteration. Her final attempt produced a result so faint that it was only detectable because the sun was lowering towards twilight.

Her wand dropped to point safely towards the ground, and Tom started to edge closer. Except for her wind-blown hair and robes, Hermione looked like a statue—was she even breathing? And then she wheeled, staring up at Tom. 

“Tell me again about the mental component.” It wasn’t a question, it was an order— a demand.

Tom bridled at the tone, but decided to comply. “You need to recall an extremely positive memory.” He was quoting straight from Merrythought’s lecture. “A time when you felt unambiguously, _incandescently_ hopeful and happy.”

Hermione brushed hair away from her eyes. “What memory did you use?”

Tom’s lips curled up at the corners, just from the thought. “Putting on the Sorting Hat, in First Year, and hearing— hearing that I really did belong.” 

Learning that he was a _school founder's_ _heir_. That confirmation that he really was _special,_ that he had family connections, somewhere in the magical world. No one would ever be able to take it all away and send him back to grey ordinariness ever again—

Hermione grimaced. “That’s what I was using too, more or less— getting my Hogwarts letter, and finding out that magic was real and I was a part of this whole wonderful new world.” She looked down, tracing patterns in the loose pebbles of the beach with the toe of her shoe. 

Her voice was hesitant, quiet enough that Tom had to bend down a little to hear it. “Did Merrythought say… anything about regret? Can the context of a memory change, with subsequent events, so that it will no longer power a patronus?”

Tom shook his head, surprised at the question. At the _implications._

Hermione’s whisper was anguished. “Ever since I lost my parents, I can’t help thinking about could-have-beens.” 

The hand not holding her wand was clenching into a fist, pounding against her thigh. “If I hadn’t gotten my letter, if I hadn’t gone away to school… all those holidays I told them I couldn’t come home, that I needed to stay and study. We lost so much _time_ together and now I’m _never going to see them again. ”_

She kicked at the ground, stones flying in every direction. “Everyone I’m ever going to love— everyone who’s ever loved me.” Her arms were wrapping tight around her waist now, clutching her lower ribs. “All of them, all of them _gone_ and I’m here, _alone—_ ”

The sun cut out. A shadow was passing overhead, and Tom seized the opportunity to look up and away.

It was the biggest raptor he had ever seen. 

Wingspan of at least six feet, a vicious curved beak, and a short, stubby tail. The bird had crossed over the shore and was now soaring across the lake. 

“That’s an erne.” 

Hermione was miraculously calm again, familiarly didactic. “A sea eagle. The post-witch in Dornie keeps them, she uses ernes to forward muggle letters from the PO box to witches and wizards in Hogsmeade and Hogwarts." She tucked a curl back behind her ear. "I wonder if the mail truck ran late today— it’s gone five, but I can’t imagine any other reason a sea eagle would fly this far into the highlands—”

Wings flapped as the great bird reversed. 

Now it was gliding, low over the choppy water. It was headed straight towards them— Tom felt a rush of air, pushed by powerful beating wings. Then the eagle was rising, spiraling back into the cloud-strewn sky.

Hermione bent down and plucked a small bundle from the damp surface of the beach. Three or four thin envelopes, tied together, with another piece of paper folded around the lot. 

Hermione brushed off the clinging flecks of stone, undoing the twine and scanning the cover-letter quickly.

“The Dornie post-witch’s daughter was sick, she’s been staying at the Leaky to be close to Saint Mungo’s since just after we started term. Now her daughter’s been discharged and she’s finally back to work— and the ministry never assigned anyone to cover the position, I guess they don’t think muggle-sent letters are very important. She feels horribly guilty about delaying the mail—”

Hermione crumpled the note up and stuffed it in her pocket, quickly flipping through the letters she still held. 

White, flimsy envelopes. Paper, not parchment. Muggle-made. 

All of them with her name, her _mudblood_ name, written right across the front in a clear, round, upright script. As if the address was something to be proud of. 

**  
** **Miss Hermione Granger  
** ******Hogwarts School  
** **℅ PO 866723** **  
** **3 Francis Street** **  
** **Dornie, Kyle, Ross-Shire** **  
****Scotland** **  
**

“They’re from my grand— my guardian,” Hermione’s voice was a hushed whisper. “From Tilda. I recognize her handwriting.”

She shuffled through the letters again, more slowly, smoothing her fingers carefully over the front of each envelope. It was as if she was in a trance. Tom noted the postmark dates— September 7th, September 21st. October 1st, and October 13th. The last one had been sent barely a week ago. 

Her guardian was very dutiful, to keep sending letters despite Hermione’s lack of reply. 

Hermione opened them all, scanning each page quickly and eagerly. 

Tom peered over her shoulder. The writing inside matched the front, clear and round, but his angle wasn’t good for reading— and many of the words weren’t in English. 

Most of the foreign interjections had to be French. With all those ‘ _ma chéries’_ and ‘ _que tus’_ and words that looked like English but had extra ‘ _e’s_ on the end, they could hardly be anything else. 

But the last letter also talked about a warning that went out _‘_ on _erev rosh hashanah,_ when so many attend _shacharit_ for the _hatarat nedarim_ afterwards, so the word spread very fast— **’** The full story had something to do with people hiding from the Nazis, in Copenhagen, and then ‘could you believe it, the Swedish had offered asylum’—

Those odd, consonant-heavy words didn’t look like French to Tom, not at all. 

Hermione’s guardian— Tilda— used not-French for heaping curses on Hitler and the Germans, too. She always followed these phrases with translation to English, as if she didn’t expect Hermione to understand the language but took too much joy in the flow of the maledictions to refrain from their use. 

The Germans should ‘suffer and remember,’ _zoln laydn aun gedenken._

For the Fuhrer himself, _er zol vaksen vi a tsibeleh, mit dem kop in drerd, un di fis farkert!_ Hitler should grow like an onion, with his head in the ground and his feet in the air!

Tom imagined using such imprecations for his own enemies, and rather understood the appeal. 

The curses were vivid and vicious, with a guttural rhythm that would be fun to say. Tom particularly liked the longest ones— the wish that the Germans ‘be transformed into lamps, to hang by day and burn by night, and be extinguished in the morning’, or ‘that the dream which I dreamt last night and the other night and every night be directed upon their heads, their hands and legs, their bodies and their lives.’ Tom was still mouthing the words to himself— ‘ _vos ikh gekhlumt nekhtn aun di andere nakht aun yeder nakht zeyn’_ when Hermione finished reading the last letter and carefully tucked all four back into their envelopes and then into the front pocket of her bookbag. 

The wind was whipping her robes around her feet and there was a blazing look, a fierce joy spreading across her face. 

_“Expecto Patronum!”_

And a shining, _solid_ form shot from her wand. 

It was an otter, an otter made of light— a full, corporeal patronus!

Hermione watched it gambol for only a moment before extinguishing the charm and bending to sling her bag over her shoulder.

She was beaming widely as Tom congratulated her. 

“Thank you Riddle.” She reached out, and squeezed his arm— was this the first time that _she_ had touched _him?_

“Your tutoring has been very helpful, I really do appreciate it, very much.” She was telling the truth, this time. “But I’ve really got to go now— as you can see, I am _woefully_ behind on my correspondence—”

And she was throwing herself over the rim of the beach, she was scrambling rapidly up the long, grass-shadowed slope of lawn— 

Always. Always running away from him, even now. 


	3. That Lawless Crowd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Riddle wanted me to fetch you.” Donnie put his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. He seemed to consider this the end of their back-and-forth: Tom Riddle’s request was the final word. Their argument was over.

Someone must have seen them down by the lake. Over dinner, Obadiah Smith asked Hermione what she had been doing with Tom Riddle, outside, for so long. 

"He offered to help me practice Transfiguration and Defense. He figured I’d need more than notes to catch up on what I’d missed.” Hermione stirred her fork through her mashed potatoes. Compelled by honesty, she grudgingly continued, “It was very kind of him to offer— Riddle’s an excellent tutor.”

“Ah, inter-house cooperation.” Obadiah Smith pronounced these words as if they were something profound. “He’s a good chap, Tom Riddle.” Now he was stroking his chin. “ _I’ve_ always said—” 

There was a thump, under the table, and Smith jerked as if someone had kicked him. He didn’t continue speaking.

Margery smiled very sweetly and asked Hermione to pass the gravy.  
  


Hermione stayed in the Great Hall once the tables cleared, finishing her letter to Tilda, before setting off on the long hike up to the Owlery. If she sent her response to Dornie tonight, it should go out with the morning muggle mail. 

When Hermione wrote to her mum and dad, she’d had the school owls deliver direct. Their replies usually took longer to draft than the owls cared to wait, so her parents would send the response via muggle post, care-of. 

With Tilda, Hermione was trying to downplay the whole _magic_ thing as much as she could. Using the Royal Mail would add extra days to the delivery of Hermione’s very tardy reply, but she had apologized in the letter, and explained about the forwarding snafu. It still seemed better, taking the additional time, than having an owl tap-tapping at the flat’s kitchen window, letter clutched in a feathery talon.

Hermione took the stairs slowly on her descent from the owlery. When she finally made it through the Common Room’s doorway, Clodagh popped up from one of the armchairs near the fireplaces, beckoning Hermione over to start a review for Charms. 

Eventually Margery, Pearl, and Rhoda joined them, passing around teacups filled with a hot, spiced, rather alcoholic punch. 

Pearl gleefully announced that their drinks were the spoils of prefectorial corruption: “The Quidditch team bribed Margy into turning a blind eye on the match-week bonding rituals, as long as they gave us a share!”

Margery hand flapped frantically as she gulped, swallowing a too-hot sip. She hurried to clarify that she’d set conditions beyond mere levy: revelry could continue in the common room only if all players under Fifth Year stuck to just the wassail’s base of mulled-ale-and-apple-juice, forgoing the added splash of brandy— and the older students were still required to pace themselves.

“I’m going to stay down here until they wrap up, keep an eye on them,” Margery promised. “I told the team I’d shut it down in a heartbeat if it looks like anyone’s getting properly drunk, and I won’t hesitate to take points, too.” 

Obadiah, the other senior prefect— the Seventh Years were on rounds— wanted immediate confiscation of the cauldron. He’d not tried to overrule Margery’s more moderate decision, but he had retreated to the boys’ dorm, “and I think he’s having a bit of a sulk.” 

Margery seemed to struggle with self-doubt as she recalled her boyfriend’s disapproval. She turned to Hermione and Clodagh, seeking reassurance that she’d made the right choice in ignoring the letter of the rules.

Hermione imagined her own response to a similar situation. If she’d never fallen back in time, and still wore a prefect’s badge in Gryffindor Tower… she’d be playing the stickler’s role, another Obadiah Smith. 

But Ron was no Margy. Ron would prefer that they pretend they hadn’t noticed the alcohol at all. 

When Hermione disagreed, Ron would tell her she was “always trying to ruin it, whenever anyone’s having fun.” There might be a reference to the fact that she’d told McGonagall about the firebolt, even though that happened back in _Third Year._

They’d work themselves into a blazing row, eventually try to get Harry involved, make him pick a side. A totally useless endeavour: Harry _never_ supported Hermione when it ran the risk of upsetting Ron. Harry would do his best to stay out of it completely, which hardly made things better— it only ever frustrated them more. 

And everytime she was reminded of Harry and Ron’s boys-together loyalty, Hermione felt horribly excluded. Like their two-month headstart on friendship, before they began to let her in after the troll in First Year, was still counting against her. She was always going to be the know-it-all, the bossy _girl._ The fact that she’d believed Harry about the Goblet from the get-go didn’t even matter. Hermione would feel like a second-best-friend, again, and her hurt feelings would provide more fuel for her fire of self-righteous anger.

When she’d worked herself up into enough of a towering rage to confront the imbibers solo— because she certainly wouldn’t have won Ron’s support— she’d probably go completely overboard. 

She’d confiscate the supplies they hadn’t managed to hide, take points, even assign detentions. And she’d be able to hear the names they were calling her as she walked away. She’d still be too angry at Ron and Harry to turn to her boys for comfort— yes, she would be an exact copy of Obadiah Smith indeed. It would be a quarter past eight and she’d have abandoned supervision of the common room completely, stomping off to bed in a strop.

And once she’d left... Hermione couldn’t lie to herself now. More booze would certainly appear from somewhere, and her housemates would continue to drink. Drink late into the night, completely free from oversight. There would be plenty of hungover faces at breakfast the next morning— perhaps a few absences from classes, too. 

Hermione put a hand on Margery’s arm, leaning forward to meet Margy’s gaze with heartfelt assurance. “You did the right thing, Marge. Prefects have got to show discretion and judgement when enforcing the rules— if that’s not part of your role, why doesn’t the headmaster just cast some automatic monitoring charm?” 

Such a charm would be far too complex to actually exist, of course— but Margy still appeared buoyed by Hermione’s support. “And you’re the only Hufflepuff I can think of who has never, not _once_ lost the House points— I should drag Obie down here and get you to repeat that!”

Margy didn’t actually get up, though. She just took another, slower sip from her cup and changed the subject. “Hermione, come down to the greenhouses with me tomorrow after breakfast— I’ll show you the pruning technique we learned last week.” 

Her eyes twinkled, she suddenly looked quite devious. “After all, I can’t let a _Slytherin_ Prefect show me up in his display of devotion to a member of my own house!” Now Margery was peering over the rim of her teacup at Hermione with curiosity— curiosity that seemed as fueled by a desire for gossip as genuine concern over whether Hermione continued to be uncomfortable with Riddle’s attention. 

Hermione could feel her chest and throat heating up, and the flush rising to her cheeks. She told herself it was from the alcohol, and the proximity of the fire, but Margery was already looking immensely satisfied. Marge winked, extravagantly, and turned to Rhoda to prompt the retelling of a story about their mutual great-grandmother’s encounter with a carnivorous plant. 

  
Once she’d gone up to bed, Hermione put aside her review of Ethelbert Prewett’s Ancient Runes notes. She wanted to re-read Tilda’s letters. 

Tilda wrote that the whole Shoreditch gang had come together to celebrate the ‘High Holy Days’: Jewish New Year— _Rosh Hashanah_ — and the Day of Atonement— _Yom Kippur._

Tilda wrote that, _“we couldn’t find anywhere selling apples, and the honeycake was made without honey, e gâteau était assez dégoûtant. Rav Kaplan says that with such for our feast days, fasting becomes too easy— oh he is such a man, ma chère cousine, il est tellement savant et aussi plein d'humour…”_

There were, in fact, quite a lot of positive mentions of the Rav. Ruth, meanwhile, was falling ever-more in love with Socialism and was driving Deb crazy by singing the _Internationale_ every morning as she blithely refused to do the washing up _._ Deb blamed Ruthie’s fellow, Benjamin, but Tilda was certain it was the other way around: Ruthie was the one radicalizing _him._

Tilda hastened to assure Hermione that she herself applauded Ruthie’s convictions, and simply _“wished chère Ruthie adopterait la version française— ‘debout, debout’ est très supérieur à l'anglais— ‘And at last ends the age of cant,’ vraiment!”_

Deb’s favorite sweater, the deep, sunny yellow that looked so good with her red-gold hair, had torn again. A big rip, all the way from armpit to hem. Deb was sick of darning the thing and proposed that if Tilda would unravel it all, she could have use of half the sweater’s yarn. Tilda planned to devote her portion to making Hermione a hat and gloves— _“for it must be très froid, at your school si loin au nord— now you must tell me if you prefer mon cher béret, les chic faux-turban-chapeau, or the, je ne sais quoi, tam-o-shanter—”_

Tilda’s seamstress job, at Orchard Court in Portman Square, was busier than ever. _“Mademoiselle Atkins and Monsieur Buckmaster pass on the word from ‘Baker Street,’ always it is rush, rush, rush— but still the work must be perfect. Every seam straight, every button tight, and all of it in the best way, a la française—”_

Hermione sometimes got an odd feeling about her grandmother-cousin’s job. Tilda did seem to be a seamstress— but there were hints of another aspect to the work, something that Tilda couldn’t talk about. And if Hermione wasn’t suffering from too much imagination — if Tilda really _were_ involved in the war effort, in some clandestine way— it would be unpatriotic to even ask. Careless talk costs lives, and all of that.

The latest letter ended with a request to know the start date for Hogwarts’ winter break. Tilda was also curious about the timetable for the Hogwarts Express, and wondered whether a magical train would be held up at junctions to give priority for goods transport, the most common cause of muggle passenger-rail delay. _“For we have all decided to tramp down to the station to meet you, chèrie. Rav Kaplan et Deb et Ruthie et Benjie et moi, or however many of us are not working. It will be a very large party, and we will take it in turns to help you carry your trunk back home. Oh, s'il-vous-plait, répondez vite, chère Hermione. You and I are each other’s only family, in the whole of this grey, cold England. I long to hear, at least, at last, from you!”_  
  


When Hermione entered Arithmancy, on Monday, Riddle hopped up from his desk in the second row. He called out to her, beckoning her to come over and say hello. Once she reluctantly fetched up next to his desk, Riddle made _smalltalk_. 

He introduced her to the two of his friends who also took the class— “Hermione Granger, Thadeus Nott. Hermione Granger, Roland Lestrange,” and moved on to an exchange of stilted comments on the weather. 

He seemed to be trying to start a conversation about breakfast next— “Yes, Riddle,” Lestrange drawled, he looked bored, “the muffins were, indeed, _very fine,”_ but Hermione bowed herself to her usual seat at the back of the room. 

Ethelbert Prewett waggled his eyebrows as Professor Murray stood up from her desk to start lecture. Hermione studiously avoided his gaze. Bert was forced to wait until the lesson’s equations were on the board to properly tease her, unfortunately, he was not at all distracted by the delay. 

“So,” Bert was grinning evilly— now he didn’t look like Ron or Bill, he looked like Fred and George— “ _Someone_ appears to want to be friends, y’wot, Hermione? Or is it _more_ than friends?” He was positively leering now. “All the girls in my house tell me that this is the same _noble swain_ that carried you to the hospital wing after you _fainted—_ very romantic, they say that Riddle picked you up in his arms like a _bride—”_

Hermione sniffed. “It was mobilicorpus, Prewett— _really!_ ” 

She got him back, though: she changed the subject by asking how he was doing at following the study schedule they had devised, “because I did think you might be struggling to give as much time as you’d planned to your academic commitments, dear Bertie, with the game between our houses only five days away.” Hermione tilted her head, gave a coy smile. “What’s that old saying— when the badgers work together, even the mountains will fall?”

Bert must have been quite anxious about the match— everyone said the perfection in teamwork between Hufflepuff’s three chasers and two beaters was _uncanny_ — because he left Hermione in peace for the rest of the lesson. He ignored her that afternoon in Ancient Runes, too.  
  


Riddle’s affability continued beyond Monday-morning Arithmancy. In fact, he asked Hermione to give up ‘Riddle’ and start calling him ‘Tom’. 

“I think of you as ‘Hermione’ in my head, I must admit— it’s such a lovely name. It feels like a waste when you call me ‘Riddle,’ and I’m relegated to a response of ‘Granger.’”

It was a nice bit of fast talk but Riddle had been calling Hermione by her given name ever since her discharge from the hospital wing. And he didn’t seem likely to stop— after all, he hadn’t actually bothered to ask her permission before he first switched to the more familiar form of address. 

Donnie shook his head once Riddle wandered back to his desk and left them to continue their bicker in Charms. “Everyone’s still on surnames with Riddle down in the dungeons. The only people who call him ‘Tom’ are the girls who’ve decided to bat their eyelashes at him.” Donnie grinned at Hermione, he was apparently extremely amused by Riddle’s request. “You’re not precisely the coquette, are you, m’dear?”

Hermione wrinkled her nose and then tried to mimic Tilda’s _‘le regard’_ . Ten seconds into the attempt Donnie was gaping, and she didn’t release him from the intense gaze until he started to flush. Chuckling, he pretended to applaud. “Oh, that’s _much_ better than batting eyelashes— my, still waters indeed, Hermione!”  
  


It went on. ‘Call me Tom’ Riddle was polite, he was charming. He started a campaign to ingratiate himself with the Hufflepuff girls. Soon, they were passing his messages onto Hermione, once she started taking all possible opportunities to retreat to the common room. 

“Tom Riddle’s inviting you to join him and the Nott boy and your friend Rosier, they’re working on the big Potions essay in the library. No? But you’ve got to go, Hermione! How can you skip out? Tom’s so handsome—”

Hermione went back to tromping all the way to the Seventh Floor and hiding in the Room of Requirement. 

After a few days of Clodagh, Margery, Rhoda, and Donnie, in addition to Riddle himself, all asking her where she kept disappearing to— they’d looked for her in the library, the common room, several empty classrooms, the Great Hall— Hermione gave up.  
  


Hermione possibly could have been more considerate towards Bert’s understandable devastation, after her House _thrashed_ the team he captained in the Hufflepuff-Gryffindor match. 

But two of Hufflepuff’s Chasers, Emily Summerby and Agness Cadwallader, were Hermione’s roommates. Hester Abbott, the other half of the newly formed Beater-Dream-Team with surprise Second Year star Pratik Patil, was another Sixth Year Girl. 

The three Quidditch players did move in a completely different crowd from Hermione, of course. Despite sharing a dorm, a common room, classes and a dining table, she’d probably not spoken to all of them, collectively, more than ten times since term began. But, as Margery loved to say, ‘the Hat put _all_ of us in Hufflepuff, didn’t it?” 

That phrase was rather a versicles in Hermione’s new House’s favorite call-and-response. 

Hermione no longer had to think before she joined in on the proud, swelling chorus of reply: “And _Hufflepuffs!_ We _lucky_ Hufflepuffs! We _work_ hard _!_ We _fight_ _fair!_ And we _look after our own!_ ”

The words _‘bit unbalanced on the pitch last weekend, wouldn’t you say, Bert?’_ might have crossed Hermione’s lips. 

She had also, possibly, let slip such phrases as _‘destroyed’_ and _‘absolute slaughter’_ and _‘our Chasers plus Abbot and Patil, well, have you ever seen anything like it? We just about wiped the floor with you, didn’t we— and all without a single foul! I’m impressed you managed to get out of bed the next morning—’_

So it was probably not much of a surprise that Ethelebert Prewett stopped sitting next to Hermione, and migrated towards his few fellow Gryffindors, for the next few sessions of Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. 

And once Bert was gone— it wasn’t every class, sometimes he stayed near the front with Lestrange and Nott— but Riddle— ‘Call me Tom’— started casually, intermittently, nonchalantly saying hello to Hermione in one or both of those lessons as he slid into Bert’s former seat. 

It was terrible: Tom Riddle had a wonderfully dry and clever sense of humor, buried underneath his careful layers of Good Boy smarm. 

He’d look at Professor Fairsaidh with all apparent respect and deep focus as the man droned on and on— Hermione had loved Ancient Runes in the ‘90s, but Fairsaidh was not much better than Binns. If it wasn’t such a useful course for anyone interested in more complex spellwork, she would really consider dropping it— and then he’d slice a corner of parchment off from his notes and slide it onto her desk. 

Inevitably, written on the paper in his tight, tidy scrawl: some elegant, multi-step quip that took the lecture as a springboard and meandered its way to a punch line that was wildly, hilariously different.

It quickly became a challenge, thinking up responses to Tom Riddle’s jokes. When Hermione happened to succeed, she could never resist showing off by writing back.  
  


After Gilderoy Lockheart — she wouldn’t honor that charlatan with the title ‘professor’— Hermione had promised herself that she would never, never again fall into infatuation over such shallow traits as a dashing smile or handsome face. 

Thankfully, Professor Lupin turned out to be extremely competent _in addition_ to tragic and handsome: Hermione’s resolution was not immediately tested. 

When Oliver Wood announced that Hermione was “brilliant” after she charmed the rain from Harry’s glasses, (she was never going to forget that moment, not for as long as she lived), Hermione spent the next three weeks trying to sell herself, Lavender, Ginny, and Parvati on the idea that Wood’s _leadership skills_ and _strategic talent_ were the reasons she admired him.

Of course, it certainly helped that Wood’s bright mind was accompanied by burly arms and a warm, trilling burr that you could hear even in the din of the common room. That crush had been quite helpful, in fact: it led to a realization that Oliver Wood’s ability to draft a team practice schedule was genuinely impressive. 

Hermione stole more than a few tricks from Harry’s Quidditch roster that spring, when she was trying to come up with a revision calendar that would allow time to prep for Buckbeat’s legal defense in addition to her _eleven_ final exams. 

Last year, when they spent the summer trapped in Grimmauld Place, Hermione and Ginny often retreated to their shared room for a shared swoon over brilliant, intense, quietly powerful Kingsley Shacklebolt. 

Come Winter Hols, though, they were disagreeing: Ginny could not wrap her mind around Hermione’s total lack of appreciation for Sirius Black. Objectively, Hermione did acknowledge that Sirius was handsome. And he always _meant_ well. But Sirius was so reckless, and he could be quite emotionally obtuse, he was really a rather rubbish godfather for Harry, in so many ways— Hermione just couldn’t bring herself— 

Eventually, they came to a truce. Ginny promised to stop sighing over Sirus, and Hermione swore to never again, by word or by deed, allude to the fact that she, ever since meeting Bill Weasley the summer before Fourth Year, continued to think that the _eldest_ of Ginny’s brothers was quite fanciable, too. 

And Ginny hadn’t picked up on this crush, of if she did she never mentioned it, but Viktor teased Hermione about her _tendre_ for Auror Tonks, after that witch’s good humor, steadying presence, and striking hair received so many glowing references in Hermione’s letters. Hermione had been extremely taken aback by the comment at first. Then she’d examined her own reactions carefully the next time Tonks came by and realized, to her surprise, that Viktor’s joke was based on truth.

When she admitted as much in her response, Viktor wrote back that he’d always wondered whether a similar buried attraction lay at the bottom of Hermione’s rather exaggerated antipathy for Fleur Delacour. 

_“And if so, it is very lucky for me that Fleur prefers wands only, never cauldrons. I was trying to beat a bear with a stick all fall, mila, working up the courage simply to say hello to you. If Fleur and I had been competing for your smile in addition to the Cup— Gospođica Delacour is such a decisive witch, such an accomplished flirt, and she knows quality, Hermione, always she has respected and admired you— well, it does make a pretty picture for the daydream— two such beautiful witches!— but I would have been very sad to find that I had put my hood on so late after the rain!”_

Now, it was just Hermione’s luck that Tom Riddle possessed that deadly one-two-three punch of traits: terribly intelligent, _and_ wickedly funny, _and_ unfairly handsome. 

Hermione was still avoiding infatuation so far, but ‘Call me Tom’ did not make it easy.  
  


By the end of the third week of November, Hermione had grown quite used to having very few solo hours in the library. And she was rather fond of her rotating set of companions. 

The core three were Clodagh, Donnie, and Tom Riddle, but Margery and Rhoda popped in occasionally. Donnie always showed up solo or came with only Tom, but Riddle sometimes dragged along the other members of his Slytherin gang. 

Of Riddle and Donnie’s other friends, Hermione’s preference was decidedly for Thaddus Nott, who was incredibly quiet, and John ‘Jack’ Mulciber, quite calm and pleasant for a could-be future Death Eater. Roland Lestrange was the worst combination of Draco Malfoy and Hermione’s imagination of a young, arrogant, pre-war Sirius Black, and she _hated_ Sheridan Avery. Avery was an absolute _tosser—_ Hermione could not understand how Donnie and Tom stayed friends with him _._  
  


Howard Clarke had interrupted the most recent big study session. 

He was grey-faced, when he asked if he might talk to Hermione. 

Tom and Clodagh, Margery and Mulciber had taken in Howard’s expression and then silently packed up their things, migrating two tables over in an attempt to give them some privacy. Once they’d left, Howard collapsed into the seat next to Hermione. 

“My brother—Bobby— ” rather than speaking further, he shoved an envelope onto the table and covered his face with his hands. 

Hermione opened the flap. There wasn’t a letter inside, just a telegram. It was dated the previous day. Hermione stared at the slip of paper, the terrible words jumping out immediately. 

_‘Regret to inform.’_

_‘Your son, Sgt Robert Clarke.’_

_‘Missing.’_

_‘Presumed dead.’_

“Oh, Howard _—_ I’m so sorry—”

Sgt Robert Clarke— Bobby— had gone missing during the Battle of Leros, yet another loss for the Allies in the Dodecanese Campaign. 

If Howard’s brother’s body couldn’t be found, it was always possible that he had been taken as a prisoner of war. But if the military went straight to _presumed dead—_ more likely they just hadn’t been able to retrieve the corpse. The Germans had taken over that entire island. 

Tentative, remembering the way Harry sometimes lashed out in response to offered comfort, Hermione placed her hand on Howard’s upper-back. He spun around in his chair at the touch and collapsed against her neck, sobbing. 

Hermione could feel the others’ eyes on them, curious and prying. She turned herself, trying to use her body to shield Howard from the purebloods’ and halfbloods’ intrusive gaze. 

“Shhh. Shhh.” She was rocking him in her arms like a baby. “Shhh. _Presumed_ , presumed isn’t the same as _definitely._ They don’t know for sure. It’s possible your Bobby’s only captured, your parents might be hearing from the Red Cross any day—”

Howard pulled back, gulping, nodding. 

He didn’t seem to believe Hermione’s attempt at comfort, which made sense because Hermione didn’t believe it herself. 

“I need to talk to Dumbledore.” He wiped his sleeve over his dripping nose, a trail of shining snot on the black fabric. “Mum and Dad and Davey— I need to be there with them, Hermione. I need to ask about going home—”

Hermione re-sheathed the telegram and helped Howard stagger to his feet. He stumbled again as he walked toward the front of the library, and face pale and eyes red and swollen. 

From two tables over, Margery beckoned for Hermione to rejoin the study group. Hermione felt mindless, transferring her things. 

“Clarke alright?” Margery sounded more curious than concerned.

Hermione shook her head. “Not really.”

“Ah.” Now Margery’s tone was warm and caring. “What happened?”

Hermione looked down, dipped her quill into her inkpot. Margery was a dear— a dear, pureblood witch. It didn’t feel worth the effort, right then, to try to explain _‘missing, presumed dead,’_ to explain that the entire muggle population was locked in a world wide war. “Howard’s had some bad news from home.”

“Sorry to hear it.” Clodagh’s eyes were round.

Margery nodded agreement, reaching down the table to squeeze Hermione’s hand. “Give him our best next time you see him, Hermione.”

A moment later, Mulciber asked if Clodagh was finished with one of the Charms texts, and the table returned to the intermittent hum of three people busily studying. 

Hermione was just approaching the point where she felt like she could, possibly, bring herself to at least review the essay outline she’d been drafting when Tom got up. He walked around the table, taking the chair on her left, in front of the Potions reference that was really too large and heavy to easily move.

After flipping through a few pages, Tom shut the book gently and leaned towards Hermione. He was close enough, now, that she could just hear his murmured question: “Was it Clarke’s father, then, or does he have a brother?”

Hermione put her quill down. 

Tom did such a good job of aping the rest of Slytherin House. It was very easy to forget that he, too, had spent his childhood in the muggle world. 

And Tom might be doing his best to turn his back on his origins— Donnie had mentioned that Tom went to Rosier Manor with him and Dru, for school breaks— but the war had been raging for more than four years. Tom would have at least some awareness of what was going on.

“His oldest brother.” Hermione could hear her voice cracking. “Missing, presumed dead, in a battle that concluded on the 16th— so it was several days before they made the determination, it seems fairly certain. Howard’s parents just forwarded the telegram onto him. I think they were too broken up to write a letter—”

“That’s terrible news.” Riddle sounded earnest, sorrowfully sincere. “What a damned bloody shame. I assume he’s going home for a spell?”

Hermione nodded. 

“I’ll give Clarke my sympathies once he comes back, then. His poor family.”  


Howard wasn’t at the Gryffindor table again.

The sorrow of Bobby’s death— his _presumed_ death— stayed with Hermione. Howard’s devastation, his grief, kept popping into her head, as she sat in classes and ate meals in the Great Hall.

But Saturday was a Hogsmeade day, and Hermione tried to put thoughts of the Clarke family’s loss out of her mind as she walked down to Hogsmeade along with the other Hufflepuff girls. 

None of them were wearing their cloaks. They'd gone back and forth about it at breakfast: the sky was a bit overcast but no one expected it to really rain— certainly not more than a drizzle. The air was cold, it was late-November, but woolen robes were warm. And movement generated its own heat.

"The only time I'll be standing still is when I'm in a shop," Pearl giggled, and Clodagh finished the argument by stating that _she_ certainly wasn't nesh, and it would be hot, in the Three Broomsticks. It was so cumbersome to carry a cloak in addition to packages. 

You could always float your purchases behind you, but in the crowds of a Hogsmeade day, that was a good way to lose some of your new belongings.

Not that Hermione expected to buy much. 

She did plan to stop into Scrivenshaft’s— or its current equivalent— to pick up parchment and quills. Her ink supply, at least, was holding well— but that really needed to be the only shop where she spent any money. 

She reminded herself _browsing only_ , for the bookshop, and Honeydukes— she should probably even refrain from indulging in the traditional Three Broomsticks butterbeer.

Hermione was very conscious of the small pouch of coins that needed to last her until the charity stipend dispersed again at the start of next school year. She was _not_ going to ask Tilda to loan her shillings and pounds, just so Hermione could change them into wizarding money and buy herself _treats._ And she needed to top up her potion ingredients too, although Slughorn had a packet of wholesale order forms for his students, it was cheaper to use his direct suppliers than buy retail through the Hogsmeade apothecary— 

Hermione was also worrying about Christmas presents. 

She hoped that no one would give her anything, so she wouldn't have to reciprocate. It seemed quite unlikely, though— she'd almost definitely end up receiving tokens from Clodagh and Rhoda and Margery, at least, when they all boarded the _Express_ in just another few weeks.

So maybe she would make a purchase or two at Honeyduke’s after all. Everyone liked sugarquills. 

Even if the cost of sweets had gone up, one of the only hardships the wizarding world was experiencing due to the war. The price couldn’t be so high that a few sugarquills used up Hermione’s funds entirely. 

Three, one each for Rhoda and Margery and Clodagh— oh better make it four, Hermione was less close to Pearl, but the dear fool was a part of their group too— 

And maybe something for Howard. Not because of his brother, she was sure he didn’t want pity— just as a thank you for the newspapers. 

And would she need to get something for Donnie, too? But he didn't seem like the kind of boy who'd give holiday presents to _her…._ better be safe, though. _Six_ sugarquills, then. And some parchment, from Scrivenshaft’s— palimpsest would be fine, she didn’t need new. And two plain goose feather quills. Nothing fancy. And no butterbeer.

It would still be fun to browse, and to wander the village.  
  


Hermione wasn't wearing her cloak, as they chatted their way down the forest path, but she was wearing her new gloves and hat.

They were a bright, sunny, golden yellow— “that’s practically Hufflepuff color! How delightful,” Pearl cooed, when Hermione opened the package over breakfast. Tilda had carried through on her promise: Hermione recognized the soft, fine yarn from its prior life as part of Deb’s best sweater. 

The gloves were a perfect fit: surprisingly thin, and flexible, barely restricting Hermione’s range of motion at all. 

Hermione remembered being six or seven years old and wanting to have her nails polished, on a visit to Norfolk. Grandma Wheeler had stopped abruptly, after just three fingers, and excitedly announced that Hermione had inherited her own hands. She’d called Hermione’s mum into the lounge— “just look at the length and taper of her fingers, Helen! Those deep wrinkles in Hermione’s palm, and her palm’s shape, too— even the nail bed, it’s exactly the same. Now you, my dear,” Grandma Wheeler had sighed, “you have your father’s hands, I am sorry to say— ”

“And my big Wheeler mitts still don’t cause me any problems when I’m rummaging around inside a patient’s mouth!” Mum had laughed, shaken her head, returned to the kitchen, where she was assisting Grandpa Wheeler with one of his endless house improvement projects. 

Grandma Wheeler looked a bit rueful, but once she picked up the polish brush she started murmuring, quietly, just to herself: “my hands, and my mother’s hands, too. Adeline’s are different, she and Simeon took after our papa, but— _Hélène—_ these are _maman and Hélène’s hands—”_

Young Hermione had been confused. Her _mum’s_ name was Helen. Grandma had just said Hermione _didn’t_ have mum’s hands. It made sense now, though: Grandma had been talking about the secret sister, the Hélène who was never mentioned. The Hélène who Helen Granger had not even known she was named after, until Aunt Adeline pulled out the family photo albums as they sat on the sofa in the apartment in _Le Marais._

When a Jew wanted to curse someone, he or she didn’t damn them to hell. Jews didn’t reach for sex terms, nor for excrement or body parts. The elliptical journeys from benediction to ill wish sounded clever in English and beautiful in French, but in Yiddish— Yiddish was the best of all.

 _A kleyn kind zol nokh im heysn—_ Deb and Ruthie translated this as _‘a small child should be named after him.’_ It meant _‘I wish him dead,’_ because Jews didn’t name their children after the living. 

Simon Wheeler and Helen Granger née Wheeler: Grandma’s son and daughter. Hélène Blum née Sarfati and Simeon Sarfati — Tilda’s older sister, and her younger brother.

Not dead, necessarily, yet— not yet _definitely_ dead. Tilda hadn’t had news from her family in France for months and months, anything could be happening.

Hermione’d never measured her palms against Tilda’s this summer, never checked to see if, now that she had grown up, their hands were still so similar, if they were perhaps even the same size. But they must be. Hermione, ten years older, still had her Grandmother’s hands. 

Tilda’s hands. Tilda’s mother’s hands, Tilda’s eldest sister’s hands. And Tilda had noticed. That was the only way that the gloves, the gloves which Hermione had never been measured for, never tried on until now— well. They fit like a glove.  
  


The hat, although slightly larger than average to accommodate the volume of Hermione’s mane, was still a bit too snug when she tried to put it on over her crown of braids. Hermione pulled it off and cancelled the sticking charm, braids tumbling down her back. It fit fine, after that, but she knew that her plaits made visible lumps, pushing against the knit.

Feeling rather bold— Hermione’d long since observed that, in ‘43, none of the witches past Third Year wore their hair _completely_ loose and unbound— she took the cap off, undid her ties, and ran her fingers through her plaits until the strands tumbled free, completely undone. 

Rhoda looked quite shocked by Hermione’s cloud of frizzing curls. Rhoda, in Hermione’s opinion, took prim and proper too far— it was just _hair._ And Pearl and Godelina’s eyes were stretching wide. 

But Clodagh grinned widely and leaned across the table to help Hermione align the twist on the cap with the center of her forehead. Margery, too, got up from where she was sitting on the edge of the group, next to Obadiah, and came over to fluff and fuss, for what felt like several minutes, with Hermione’s riotous mane.

Once Marge had met her own obscure standard, she bent over and pecked a kiss on Hermione’s cheek. "You look lovely, my dear— and even if the wind blows, that hat will stop your hair from getting into your eyes!"

Rhoda and Pearl and Godelina had gone back to their porridge and eggs and sausage after that. 

Hermione did wonder if she'd regret putting her hair down once she had to brush it that night. The breeze blew it everywhere. Under her collar, into her mouth— she spit out strands and wiped a hand across her face as she stood outside the bookshop, urging Clodagh to leave her to browse and take Kenneth Edgecombe up on his invitation to visit the teashop. 

They'd started to split up as soon as they arrived at the village. Goddolina and Rhoda and Tabbitha Perkins wanted to pick out dressrobes to wear to parties over the holidays, and Obadiah collected Margery for a leisurely stroll. The Quidditch girls were looking at broomstick care kits in Dervish and Banges, and Pearl and a few of Pearl’s other friends were still making up their minds on purchases from Honeydukes.

Clodagh looked back and forth between the bookshop windows and Edgecombe’s nervous face. “I don’t want to abandon you, though. And that book you were reading, th' seventh-century magical theory one, I wanted a gander next. It sounded right swell—”

An arm wrapped around Hermione’s shoulders. “Hermione’s not going to be reading that book either, Ogden. Off with you now, go and make Edgecombe happy— I’m taking our witch to the pub!”

Donnie. 

Hermione struggled free and put her hands on her hips.

“Maybe I don’t want to go to the Three Broomsticks, Rosier. Has that thought ever occurred to you? Did you ever think, hmm, maybe she would rather keep looking at a very interesting book, until she's ready to head back to the castle, rather than go into a hot, filthy pub—"

"Oy!" He reared back at this imprecation. "The Three Broomsticks is fabulous! It's not filthy, it's not the Hogshead—Master Rosmerta is an excellent proprietor. There's no book in the world that's better than that pub!"

Hermione shook her head in mock-sorrow over this ignorance. "Oh, you're wrong, Donnie-boy. You're _ever_ so wrong—you see, the author has this theory, about why the Germanic wizards, the Jutes and the Frisians and the Angles— they'd been in England for two hundred years, and they were mostly still following their own magical traditions. Because it was letting them beat the _Welsh_ , that was what they called _all_ the Brythonic peoples, what they called the Druids. And then suddenly, over just a few decades, starting in Kent, and Northumbria was next— they switched to the Romano-British spell-casting system—”

Clodagh and Kenneth Edgecombe were a hundred yards down the street. They turned around a corner, and disappeared.  
  
  


“Riddle wants you.” Donnie put his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. He'd enjoyed their argument— Hermione could tell— but now he was ready to be done. And to Donnie, a request from Tom Riddle was the final word.

When Hermione rejected the notion that Tom’s preference for her presence was sufficient reason to change her plans, Donnie dragged her back into the shop.

He did get a bit distracted, after he demanded she point out the book she'd been talking about. History was so _interesting,_ as long as it wasn't being taught by Professor Binns! Smug, Hermione pulled down the author's two other titles, just for a quick browse.

By the time Donnie surfaced, Hermione was deeply engrossed. She flapped a hand at him, when he said something about "time to go". She was going to read a little bit more, and she promised she'd stop by the pub and say hello, when she was done—

Donnie plucked both books out of her hands and carried them, along with _On an Anglo Saxon Spellcasting Shift,_ up to the front counter. 

And then he bought them. As casually— more casually— than Hermione purchasing her bundle of sugarquills.

She watched the stream of galleons clinking into the cashbox, the few knuts and sickles of change that Donnie accepted in return. He dropped the small coins into his plump drawstring purse without bothering to count. 

She felt like she was Ron, and Donnie was Harry. But Hermione was not going to let herself resent the fact that Donnie was lucky enough to be so easy with his money. She just said, “thank you,” very sincerely, when he handed her all three books, and swung the twine-wrapped bundle happily— she felt like twirling, as they hurried down the street.

Donnie shrugged. “Like I said, Riddle was asking for you, love, and I'm not going to be the one to make him wait." He shook his head. "Not worth it, spending ages convincing you to leave a few books behind— faster to just buy them.” He had tugged opened the door to the pub and was gesturing her into the warm, hectic, noisy room. 

Hermione tugged off her gloves and stuffed them and the hat into the voluminous pockets of her robes. Next to her, Donnie craned his head above the crowd, trying to spot the Slytherin gang. 

“There they are!”

He gestured her towards one of the prime tables, somewhat shielded from the hubbub by its proximity to the back wall. Lestrange, Avery, and Tom were seated on the three chairs, and Jack Mulciber was lounging on the wall-side bench. The table was scattered with cups, and there was a big pitcher in the center— probably butterbeer.

Tom and Mulciber rose to their feet when they noticed Hermione— and Donnie— approaching.

A moment later, after a glare from Tom, Avery and Lestrange stood up too. Jack Mulciber had drifted over to a nearby table of Third or Fourth Years, and one of the young witches was getting up from her chair and cramming onto an already full bench. Jack picked up the vacated seat and hefted it back to the Sixth Years' table, putting it down next to Tom. 

“Nice of you to finally fetch Granger, Domhnall.” Lestrange sounded supercilious, as usual. "What took so long? Did she keep getting blown down the street by all that hair?"

Avery snickered, and Hermione didn't bother to respond beyond rolling her eyes. Donnie muttered something quite rude, though, as he dropped onto the bench next to Jack. Tom was guiding Hermione down, into the newly-obtained chair, and two clean tankards had soared across the pup to land, quivering, on their table. 

Hermione was impressed that the barman had noticed their arrival. He must keep a close eye on this table— she said something to that effect, and Tom looked terribly smug as he poured her a butterbeer. 

Hermione put her packages under her seat and pushed hair off her face for the hundredth time. She looked around the table again, counting noses. “Only the five of you today? What's happened to Nott?”  
  


**

Tom nodded his approval at Rosier as Hermione settled herself into her chair. Tom had been anticipating her arrival for the last twenty minutes, but he was feeling generous enough to forgive Rosier the delay. It was very, very nice, having _Hermione_ come to _him._

She was talking, saying something about Nott’s absence. Tom's brow furrowed, trying to remember whether he had seen the other boy in Hogsmeade at all. Avery smirked. “Nott's probably taking advantage of having all of us out of the castle. Prime time to bring Alphard Black up to our dorm—”

Tom’s brows drew together. Avery couldn’t be implying—

Mulciber put a hand on Avery’s arm. “Yes, he is. And I promised Thad that I’d keep the lot of us down in the village until we have to head back for dinner, so get ready for a lot of butterbeer. Black's doing his OWLs this year, Thad and he deserve a few hours of privacy.”

Tom could feel the grimace twisting his face. “Nott’s not a—” he clamped his lips together after the inadvertent pun. Hermione was here, she was a witch— it didn’t do to discuss such things in mixed company. 

Mulciber and Avery were glancing at each other, not saying anything. 

Beside Tom, Hermione had drawn herself up. “You know, Tom Riddle, that kind of attitude is really quite _mugglish."_ She arched a brow. "Lower class muggle, too. It doesn’t become you at all.” 

Tom’s followers’ sangfroid persisted. They weren’t jumping to his defense. They _agreed_ with Hermione?

Avery, the idiot, noticed Tom’s surprise. He giggled nervously. "Really, Riddle. Why do you think Domhnall’s sister is engaged to a _toddler?"_

Mulciber’s hand shot to the center of the table, he was lifting the jug. Clever Mulciber then diverted Rosier from his inevitable blowup by offering a refill of butterbeer. 

"Druella is stunning." Mulciber continued to pour, filling his own cup and then moving onto Avery and Lestrange. A few drops dribbled out when Mulciber reached Tom, and he lifted his wand, sending the empty jug back to the bar, raising a finger to order another. 

Once Master Rosmerta had nodded acknowledgement, Mulciber turned back and benignly resumed the conversation. "Dru could have her pick of wizards, if she wanted— but she doesn't want a wizard."

Rosier emptied his tankard noisily and set it down with a bang. "No— ” he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand— “Dru wants Augusta Carrow.” 

Rosier surged to his feet. He grasped the brimming jug that was sloshing towards them and guided it down onto the table before it could drip into Hermione's cloud of hair. Tom had never seen her hair down before. It was very distracting.

“You know, Riddle—Augie's a year above us. Tall, red bookbag. Absolutely pants at Charms. Sits next to Dru, in the common room and at meals.” 

Tom nodded in recognition and Rosier sat down, pouring himself a third serving. Rosier sipped, more moderately this time, and sighed in contentment. “Augie just signed a betrothal contract with Frederick Longbottom— they’ll marry come summer, as soon as she leaves school."

Lestrange straightened, looking surprised. "I thought Old Greenthumbs was one of those ones who refuses to do his duty to society. My parents say he’s married to his gardens and his greenhouses, never looked at a witch — or a wizard— in his life."

Rosier seemed pleased to know something that Lestrange did not. 

"Greenthumbs was happy enough with leaving Longbottom House to his half-sister, the Widow Bulstrode, and then her son after her. But rumor is Algernon _Slughorn_ helped himself to his cousin’s cabinets. Then the Widow Bulstrode didn’t pay enough attention to her drink at Sluggie’s midsummer party… three days later, she’s the Widow Bulstrode no more.”

Tom was the first one to pick up on the implication of amortentia, and it confused him. "I thought magical unions were declared invalid if you could prove they happened due to compulsion. It’s only when a witch or wizard is mad enough to bewitch a muggle that the resulting marriage still stands—”

Lestrange shuddered theatrically. "Blood traitors are so disgusting. Dosing a muggle into marriage— might as well fuck your _house-elf._ "

Hermione’s brows surged up, her voice was cut glass. "Lestrange, I’m curious. Are you saying that a muggle dosed with Amortentia has as little ability to give consent as a bonded house elf?" Her eyes narrowed and she half-stood, leaning far across the table. "Or are you just employing that simile because you believe that house elves and muggles are both _less than human?"_

Lestrange smiled with delight and amusement. "My dear Granger,” his voice was languid, lazy. “Why do I have to choose? Can't it be both?"

Avery sneered and seized on the opportunity for malice, leaning forward to shake a chastising finger a few inches from Hermione’s nose. 

"And you're supposed to be _‘such a clever mudblood,’_ Granger! I know it’s an adjustment from your childhood, but it’s astonishing that even in your sixth year at Hogwarts you still think _witches and wizards_ are as incapable of complex though as your _muggle parents_."

Mulciber and Lestrange chuckled, appreciating the jibe. Even Rosier's lips were twitching, until he appeared to remember that Hermione’s parents were incapable of _simple_ thought, too, being not only _muggles_ but also _dead_. His eyes widened and he blushed, gulping rapidly from his tankard yet again. 

Tom had taken advantage of the pause in conversation to top off his own first serving of butterbeer. Cup full, he turned to take care of Hermione, but it appeared that she had not yet taken a single sip. 

She had shrunk back to her seat as Avery spoke. Now, as Mulciber and Lestrange continued to guffaw, slapping Avery on the back in delight at the joke, her shoulders began to creep up toward her ears. Her eyelids drifted closed, and then they opened again, slowly, and closed, and re-opened. Her soft lips were pressed tightly together, she was breathing, audibly, through her nose.

Tom nudged Hermione’s tankard until it bumped, splashing, against her hand. 

Her eyes flew open and her shoulders sank back into place. When she lifted the cup, raised it against her mouth, her hand was steady. But her lips didn’t part on the rim. She didn’t swallow. When Tom checked Hermione’s lap, hidden from the rest of the group’s sight by the tabletop, her other hand was clenching and flexing in a tight fist. 

Tom imagined the dents that would be pressing into her palm. Half-moon crescents, flushing purple-red. 

He reached blindly, settling his hand on top of Hermione’s. Lifting his thumb, he started to gently rub her knuckles. 

Rather than relaxing at the touch, Hermione pulled away. 

When Tom followed, trying to lace their fingers together, she lowered the tankard from her mouth and the elbow of that arm shot out, slamming into his ribs. Butterbeer sloshed on her sleeve. 

Hermione hit _hard._

Tom pulled back and rubbed at the incipient bruise. 

Nostrils flaring, he turned to fix her with a look of indignation. But when their eyes met and Hermione’s blankness dropped, she was looking at _him_ with bewildered betrayal — a disappointed anguish that rapidly began to shift into prickly anger. 

“Don’t _touch me,_ Riddle _.”_

Tom wanted to snarl. 

Had Hermione really expected him to _defend_ her inferior upbringing and dirty muggle kin? 

Did she think that just because Tom did the necessary and expressed condolences, when Clarke’s filthy brother died— did she think that Tom actually felt a single iota of _respect_ for those lowly creatures?

Tom might admire the way Hermione seemed to transcend her muddy blood: he still tried to think about her actual _muggle origins_ as little as possible. 

Fuming, he shifted his chair until it clunked against her own. Then he lifted his arm, draped it over and past Hermione's shoulders. Tom stretched, reaching diagonally across the front of Hermione’s body and plucking her hand away from the tankard that was now resting on the table.

Grip tight on her wrist, he tugged her arm up and across her chest, almost to her shoulder. Elevation achieved, he adjusted his hold. Now Tom’s hand clasped over Hermione’s own, their joined grasp dangling just below her collarbone. 

Her hair teased against his wrist, over the bare skin that poked past the cuff of his robes. It tickled where it brushed over his hand. Hermione’s fingers were scrabbling. She was trying to find an angle that would allow her to dig her nails into Tom’s skin. 

Refusing to let go, Tom adjusted his grip again. As soon as their fingers were laced firmly together and Hermione’s hand was entirely immobilized, he used his arm to press on her shoulders, pulling Hermione firmly up against him. 

Even through all their layers, both their robes and the crumpled edge of Tom’s cloak, Hermione felt furnace-warm. They were in contact all along her flank, from her shoulder blade to her thigh. Her upper body was angled just enough to drape half across Tom’s chest. 

Hermione let out an offended gasp. She had gone rigid immediately. 

Tom was fighting the urge to lean down and rub his jaw along the top of her head. 

Her froth of curls looked impossibly soft. But the individual strands would probably catch against his lips, a hundred delicious tugs and rasps…

It would be a terrible idea. 

Tom had successfully neutralized Hermione’s ability to wield her elbow, but with the mood she seemed to be in, she’d probably jerk her head back and try to break his nose. Indeed, below the level of the table Hermione’s opposite hand, still clenched in the fist that had started this all, was swinging low across her body, aiming for Tom’s gut. 

Tom reached with his own free arm, spreading his palm, intercepting the blow. 

Hermione’s fingers shifted wildly. She was trying to pinch him— but Tom simply adjusted his grip. He yanked on her arm, dragged it past her lap and into his own. Holding her wrist down against the firm surface of his opposite thigh, he pried her fingers apart and pressed hard, until her fingers were spread wide over his leg. 

Hermione was, if possible, even more stiff. It was like embracing a victim of _petrificus totalus,_ or one of the mudbloods who’d glimpsed his basilisk last year— every single muscle in her body, straining and tense. 

"You know, Tom," it was a barely audible whisper, "If you don’t let me go, I swear I’m going to _bite_ you.”

Tom chuckled silently. Hermione shivered— he wondered if she could feel the rumble of his laughter, she was pressed so tightly against his chest.

Mindful of possible angles of attack, he bent to nuzzle their cheeks together and then started to worry. Had he shaved that morning? 

Tom’s facial hair was more like facial fuzz. He was still years away from the point where he could cultivate a proper, luxurious wizard’s beard. But, even though he’d decided to make a virtue of a necessity and keep cleanshaven, with so little hair growing he didn’t always bother to attend to the matter every day. 

Hermione’s cheek felt so downy, so soft. If Tom had even a trace of stubble it would be abrasive, rubbing on such delicate skin. He tore himself away from Hermione’s cheek and moved up to her temple, burying his nose in her curls instead. 

Hermione’s hair smelled like cold air and dried sweat. She had washed it recently, there was only the faintest hint of scalp oil, and a lingering, spicy-floral scent that must be her shampoo. She smelled _amazing—_

Tom shifted again, until his lips brushed over the delicate shell of Hermione’s ear. And she had just threatened to _bite_ him— Tom couldn’t resist. He nipped her. Just a tug, not clamping down— just a light little nibble. 

As his teeth let go, he definitely heard it: Hermione letting out a tiny, gasping sigh. For a moment she softened. She was completely limp against him— then she stiffened up again. 

“Pretzels are nice, Hermione,” Tom was smiling. He could hear it in his voice and she could hear it too. She was stifling a laugh, and then she swung her head, trying to bang her skull against his. 

Tom pulled back and tugged Hermione further in, until she was almost sitting in his lap. “But I’ve always thought they went best with beer. Stop trying to hurt me, I’ll let you go, and you can finally drink some."

Hermione thought for a moment and then finally nodded. 

Tom savored the feeling of her body in his arms— Hermione, pinned— before he finally leaned all the way back and let her hands go. 

She shifted back into the center of her own chair immediately. Her hands shoved under her thighs: she was sitting on them. 

Tom kept his arm draped over Hermione’s shoulder as he picked up his tankard with his free hand. His fingers were already idly combing through her hair. It was like the curls were trying to swallow him— 

And she _still_ wasn’t drinking any butterbeer. 

Tom sighed and returned to the conversation.

Their little melodrama appeared to have gone completely unnoticed.   
  


“—Anyway, Riddle’s not quite correct.” Mulciber turned to look at Tom and smiled to show he meant no insult. “Magical compulsion is absolutely allowed, to bring about a proper marriage. Just as long as the party affected is below the age of majority, and it's done by, or at the direction of, their Family Head.”

Lestrange smirked. “And I’ve heard that if the _other_ partner to the marriage didn’t know compulsion was going to be involved, he or she can sue for annulment due to deception. It’s not done to sell a pig in a poke, or to wake up after the wedding night and find out your besotted betrothed was really the product of the Imperius, or amortentia. Rather unfortunate, for the Rosiers, no one wants to buy what they’d be selling— ”

“And most families won’t knowingly welcome a member who had to be compelled to join them, Roland is exactly right.” Mulciber’s interruption was so graceful that you barely noticed him seizing back the conversation’s reins. “It’s definitely not _common_ , Riddle, there’s no surprise you’d not heard reference to it, but that’s the reason full majority still falls at nineteen for a witch and twenty-four for a wizard.”

“That distinction never made sense to me,” Tom admitted. “The law puts financial independence at seventeen, and the ability to independently sign all contracts _except_ for those related to betrothal and marriage. You can purchase and sell real property, file lawsuits, use magic outside of school, outside of properly wizarding areas—”

“—and stand trial as an adult and face lifelong imprisonment in Azkaban, even the Kiss, as punishment for _magick’s misuse_ — ” Hermione’s sudden participation in the conversation came in the tone of awed understanding Tom associated with the epiphanies she stumbled into while researching for essays. Hermione would always glance up from her book a few words after she had started talking, cheeks blooming in a smile. Then, when her eyes focused on Tom, her face would go cold and still.

Tom gloried at Hermione’s joy in knowledge but he hated that look. It made him feel like he _wasn’t good enough._ Like Hermione expected to see someone else across the table, and was disappointed to realize, no, it was only Tom. 

To his own disgust, he had brought it up to both Rosier and Clodagh Ogden. Tom was still trying to decide if he found it reassuring that the two of them immediately knew what he was talking about, that Hermione did that same excitement-disappointment cycle on them too. 

“ _—as_ _punishment should thou, be thee wizard proud or noble witch, by thy neighbors be discovered debasing thine powers with any renderment of aid unto those lowly beings known henceforth as muggles, beings with no magic of their own—_ ’”

“You’ve memorized the Statute, Granger?” Mulciber looked impressed. “Anyway, yes Riddle, both of you are spot on. We get all the other privileges— and responsibilities— at seventeen. But the Wizengamot-in-their-wisdom knew that sometimes Mama and Papa would need a few more years to arrange the _perfect betrothal contract_ — so, until a wizard or witch has married, the age of majority, with its ability to choose one’s own partner, regardless of parental consent— it lags behind.”

Mulciber’s fingers were tapping rapidly on the table. “I understand the reasons for it, of course. _‘Upon such alliances civilization was built.’_ Got to preserve the Family: Business and Blood. But damn— “ Mulciber huffed, shaking his head. “Knowing that something could go wrong with Mother’s estate, drought or flood or cow disease, and suddenly all her promises to let me choose my own bride in my own time would be as good as leprechaun gold— it's the one thing that makes me envy you, Granger, you and all the other mudbloods." 

Mulciber raised his tankard in a toast, "and you, Riddle. You've got yourself the best of all worlds.”

Lestrange was nodding, awed. “I still can’t believe you got the Wizengamot to emancipate you last summer. Just because your muggle institution'd told you at the start of Fifth Year that if you came back to them for bedspace again, they’d send you off to train as a common laborer— and when the Wizengamot tried to trace your family connections for a new guardian it turned out your uncle had just been banged up in Azkaban—”

“Blood traitors, all of them.” Avery sneered. “Three years conviction for each of those muggles he killed? Nine years total, it’s ridiculous! And on top of that they rob him of his privileges as the Gaunt Head! My father wrote quite a stern letter, it was published in the _Prophet_ —”

Lestrange’s interruption was amused. "Although I suppose it’s working very well for you Riddle, isn’t it? You wouldn’t be dallying with the mudblood here, if Mad Morfin had the charge of you—"

Tom locked eyes with Lestrange and kept his voice cool. "I would never allow a lesser wizard to boss me around, that’s certainly true." 

He wondered if Hermione was looking at him. 

That word, dallying— he wondered how she'd reacted. He wondered how she'd reacted to his lack of reaction.

He didn't want to look at her and actually know. Wondering was better. 

Tom turned to Rosier, who was flushed and glassy eyed. Butterbeer’s alcohol content was low, of course, but so much, so quickly, on an empty stomach… Hopefully Mulciber would switch the poor wizard to water soon.

"Why hasn't the new Mrs. Algernon Slughorn sought an annulment, if her husband dosed her with amortentia to bring her into the marriage?"

Rosier straightened, swaying. "To clarify," he was speaking as if he needed to concentrate on the shape of each word, "it's just a rumor on the love potions. But I'm sure Mrs. Slughorn hates even that. She's Longbottom-born, Riddle— that family is all as proud as hippogriffs!"

Mulciber stretched. He was carefully pulling Rosier’s tankard away from his reach. "Either way, Donnie-my-boy. _My_ question is whether our own Augusta Carrow will at least get a plum marriage contract out of it all, in exchange for ensuring dear brother-in-law Algie can never call himself a master of Longbottom House?"

Rosier nodded enthusiastically. "Soon as she has a magical child— Longbottom doesn't care about son or daughter— Augie might as well be a widow.” 

Mulciber had cast a quiet _aguamenti_ to refill Rosier’s cup with water, and now Rosier had lifted it back up to his mouth. He seemed confused by the lack of taste when he sipped, the tankard sloshed back down. 

“Augie gets a generous quarterly allowance plus unrestricted, immediate access to her jointure. Full physical and legal custody of the child, and courtesy tenure for the Longbottom’s cottage in Devon and their London townhouse— and Longbottom goes back to fussing with his plants at the estate in Yorkshire.” 

Rosier seemed to have forgotten his dislike for the water, he took another, longer, sip. “Plum marriage contract for Longbottom, too— goes back to the same life as he had as a bachelor, except with a permanent discount on Carrow-made glass and a Mrs. Longbottom to represent the family at big society events."

Lestrange whistled lowly. "An ideal marriage indeed! Next best to a love match, and probably much more peaceful in the long run."

Rosier nodded. He was tracing a pattern in the spilled water. "Dru's betrothal contract's not quite so lovely. Mother was quite sauced with Father, actually. Didn't talk to him for a week after she read the terms."

"Oh?" Avery was leaning forward, eyes glinting in malicious delight.

Rosier didn't seem to notice that Avery was being his typical self. He belched, and leaned back in his chair.

“Mmm. Dru’s got to consummate the marriage as soon as the Black brat turns thirteen, and then monthly thereafter, at healer recommended times.” Rosier's eyes drifted closed. “I guess the Blacks think they can convince Slughorn to let Cygnus portkey home once a month— there’s no way Dru’s going to come back to Hogwarts and fuck him in the dorms…”

Rosier dragged a hand over his face. Next to Tom, Hermione’s expression was one of repulsed fascination. 

“Those terms only end once Dru’s given birth to a boy— magical boy, obviously, wizard, not a squib— or at least three witches.” Rosier’s eyes opened, and his voice lowered to almost a whisper. “And if something happens to Cygnus, if he dies before Dru discharges the terms of the contract—” his head shook back and forth. “She's obligated to marry another Black and continue trying to meet the terms. Alphard’s sure to be bargained away by that point so I guess it would mean waiting for Orion and Walburga’s son to turn thirteen—"

Avery nudged Lestrange. His whisper was loud enough to carry. "Assuming they’ve managed to produce a wizard by then, y'wot. Orion said Walburga gets pregnant like catching a cold, but actually carrying to term—”

Hermione hadn't heard Avery, she was staring at Rosier, looking queasy. “Donnie, that’s absolutely _sick.”_

Rosier shrugged. “Dru’s not fussed by it, actually. Doesn’t understand why Mother is so upset. She’s always wanted babies and this way she never has to be married to a wizard who will really expect anything from her. She’s already convinced Father to include Bopsy in her dowry—“ Rosier grinned. “Bopsy’s the one that brought us up, just as much as Mother, she’s a very good nursery-elf. Dru’ll just leave Bopsy and the babies at Number 12, in Walburga’s care, and have all the time she wants to visit with Augie.” 

Rosier yawned, forgetting to cover his mouth. “They’re going to look at the Longbottom townhouse together over the hols— Druella wants to measure all the windows so they can start picking out curtains.”  
  


At a quarter-past five, Mulciber sent Avery up to the bar to take care of their bill, and finally allowed the rest of the table to stand and stretch, and start gathering their things to head back up to the castle. 

Tom still couldn’t quite wrap his mind around _Nott_ being like _that,_ but he’d gotten the point: in _magical_ society you didn’t care what a witch did with another witch, or a wizard with another wizard. Not as long as that witch or wizard was willing to marry an appropriate partner and create magical children so that magical society would survive and thrive.

Lucky for Nott, Tom supposed. In the muggle world, ‘gross indecency’ was a crime, punishable with up to two years hard labor. 

And Tom knew some of his housemates were betrothed, but it had been a distant fact— engagements shifted the lines of alliance, in Slytherin house, they had nothing to do with romance. Betrothal contracts had no effect on who participated in the common room kissing games, or even which witches and wizards slipped away to the alcoves hidden behind the window drapes. Tom had heard those alcoves hosted a lot more than just kissing. Sometimes they rather strained the limits of _petting parties_ , too. 

And it wasn’t just physical. 

Now that Tom thought about it, some of his betrothed housemates had gone well beyond casually _making time_ with witches and wizards who were not their fiances. There were a few proper couples, regularly and publically walking out together, where one or both of the members was already promised elsewhere. 

On the other hand, plenty of students in Slytherin were _not_ engaged. 

And not just in the lower years. Perhaps it varied from family to family. 

Mulciber did say his mother had promised to allow him to select his own wife. And Tom had never heard any mention of betrothal arrangements for Rosier— maybe Rosier Senior only felt the need to arrange things for Druella, since she obviously had no chance of falling for a suitable wizard naturally. 

Tom was almost seventeen. If Mad Morfin hadn’t confessed to the murder of the Riddle Family, Tom’s uncle would have the power to boss him around for the next seven years. 

Tom had never had any particular interest in romance, much less marriage. Mostly he found it amusing, when witches pined after him. When he did allow an encounter to go beyond the joviality of ‘hide the slipper’ and ‘blind wizard’s bluff,’ it was because he had decided he wanted something from the witch— not her body, but some favor or trinket that could be gained by earning her affection.

But Lestrange’s description of the Longbottom’s arrangement as an ideal marriage! It was certainly _pragmatic_ , they would each get what they wanted, but Tom had no desire to find himself mired in— to find himself _settling—_ for something like that.  
  


Avery had returned. The six of them were winding their way out of the pub, packed now with an early evening crowd: more adults than students.

Outside the night was quiet, and fully dark. Above the roofs, the sky had already faded from twilight to an indigo that verged on black, strewn with twinkling stars. With the air turned so clear and dry, the night was going to be very cold— it might even get down below freezing.

Tom hurried to swing his cloak closed, and pulled up his hood. Hermione, he noticed, was not carrying any outer layers, just pulling a crumpled ball of knitwear from her pocket.

Rosier— starting to sober up, and seemingly a bit abashed by his prior loquaciousness— took hold of Hermione’s packages so she could adjust her hat and blow into her gloves, warming the fingertips before she slid them on. 

Rosier’s brow was wrinkling, he looked concerned. “No cloak, Hermione?”

She shook her head and stomped her feet several times. She was chafing her hands over her upper arms, too.

“We talked it over at breakfast, thought it looked like it’d be warm today. And it _was._ I figured I’d be leaving the village by three, cozy in the castle before sundown, but now it’s practically half-past-five.” She laughed ruefully. “And if a cat laid eggs it would be a hen. I’ll just have to go fast, get my heartrate up— want to run back with me, Donnie-boy?”

Rosier was already swinging his cloak off, draping it over Hermione’s shoulders. She tried to shrug the fabric away, but when Rosier insisted she gave up and snuggled into the warmth. 

“I’m a big lad, Hermione, and I’ve still got a bit of a butterbeer blanket going— I’ll be fine.”

Hermione looked horrified. “That’s alcohol causing vasodilation, Donnie, and it’s not actually keeping you warm— in fact, it _increases_ your chances of developing hypothermia!”

Rosier looked confused by the muggle medical terms. “Cold sickness,” Tom stepped forward. “Frostbite. Stuff like that.” 

Rosier rolled his eyes. “We’re walking between Hogsmeade and Hogwarts in _November._ This isn’t the Pennines, or the Cairngorms. This is the _Northwest Highlands_. We might be in the mountains, but these mountains are only, what— fifteen miles from the Atlantic coast?”

“It doesn’t have to be snowing for you to get hypothermia, Donnie.” Hermione reached out and shoved Rosier’s chest. He teetered slightly— the butterbeer was definitely still in effect. 

“I’m not going to get— hippothema—” Rosier was striding off, turning to call over his shoulder. “I’m walking fast, see, just like you were going to do— and anyway, Hermione, I’m a wizard! If I get too cold, I’ll just conjure a fire—”

“Probably set _himself_ on fire, the sodden lout.” Lestrange sounded amused, but Hermione squeaked at the idea and Mulciber appeared rather concerned.

“Hypothermia _can_ cause impaired judgement—” Hermione’s voice was still shrill. 

Tom rummaged through Rosier’s cloak to find her hand, twining his bare fingers with her gloved ones. “Rosier is not going to get _hypothermia,_ Hermione.” 

She looked up at Tom anxiously, and he turned to Mulciber. “You’ll hurry on and keep an eye on Rosier, alright? Make sure he gets to the castle without burning down the woods.”

Mulciber sighed, and chivied Lestrange and Avery into accompanying him as he hurried down the street.

Hermione had pulled her hand loose from Tom’s, she seemed to be looking for something.

“Donnie still has my packages!” She blew hair off her face. “My books— and my sugarquills!” In the light shining from the pub windows, Tom could see that she was gnawing at her lip. “Although he did pay for the books, so I suppose I can’t demand that he give them to me— but those are _my_ sugarquills.” Hermione looked quite upset. “I was planning to give them for presents!”

Tom smiled, amused. “I’m sure you can ransom your sugarquills out of Rosier— you do have his cloak. And we’ll all be in the Great Hall for dinner anyway.”

Hermione ducked her head, and they started walking. “I suppose I did overreact a bit.” She sounded embarrassed.

Tom’s eyes narrowed, and he took a firm hold of her elbow— which was good, because she was skidding on the damp, slippery cobbles. Once she had found her balance, he didn’t let go.

“Rosier laughed at what Avery said about your parents, but you’re still calling him Donnie-boy and letting him give you his cloak and worrying about him getting too cold. I didn’t even laugh— why did you get so upset with me?”

Hermione walked on in silence for a minute.

“Has Donnie ever spoken with a muggle in his life?” She didn't seem to expect an answer. “All he knows is what he’s been told. He sees the crowds when he walks through King’s Cross, to Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters a few times a year— and that’s it, that's his full experience with muggles. He’s a chauvinist, Tom, but he's an ignorant one.” 

She was shivering, even though she was wrapped in Rosier’s fur-lined cloak. “All your friends are chauvinists." She laughed, bitterly. "Most of my friends are, too. Hufflepuffs are just nicer about it. Not like that Avery, who’s mean just because, or Lestrange, who looks down on everyone except you.” 

Now she had stopped walking. Tom stopped too, rather than pulling her along. His hand dropped away from her arm.

They were beyond the lights of the town, now. The only illumination came from the stars and the half-full moon, shining through the branches overhead. Tom’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness. He could see the shape of Hermione’s nose and mouth, the light glinting from her eyes. They looked wet.

“But you, Tom. You've _known_ muggles. You don’t have ignorance as an excuse. You might be trying to forget your childhood, but you still knew enough about the war to understand what had happened to Howard’s brother.” 

Hermione leaned forward. Her finger made contact with his chest. “Did you even mean it, when you said it was a ‘damned bloody shame’ Sergeant Robert Clarke had been killed?” She poked him again, harder. “When you said you were sorry for Howard’s loss, were you just doing the expected thing?”

Tom shrugged.

Hermione rocked back on her heels. “I loved my muggle parents." She sniffed, wiped at her nose. "I loved my muggle parents and my muggle grandparents, Nana and Pop-Pop and Grandpa Wheeler. I loved my— guardian, I love Tilda.”

She sniffed again. “I love Tilda. And I love Aunt Adeline, who I’ve only met once in my life. And her partner, my Tante Marie-Jeanne." Her eyes were squeezing shut, as if she were in pain. "I love my Aunt Hélène." Her voice was thickening. "We have the same hands. That’s what my grandmother said, Tom. I have _Hélène’s hands_ —”

Now her arms were wrapping around her ribs. “My mother never met Aunt Hélène, or Uncle Simeon." Hermione was blinking rapidly, her eyelashes were wet. "I’ve never met them. I am never _going_ to meet them—” her voice was so quiet he had to lean closer to hear it. “I am _never going_ to meet them, Tom, _because the Nazis are killing them!"_ Her next breath sounded like a sob. "The Nazis are _killing my family!"_

She was rubbing her eyes. “And nobody wants to talk about it. None of the newspapers write articles about what the Germans are doing in Poland. None of the Allied leaders call it out as an _atrocity._ _"_

Hermione half-laughed. It sounded bitter. “In Shoreditch everyone says, well, the goyim just don’t care." She shook her head. "And _wizards_ definitely don’t care." She was looking up at him now. "Helping muggles is considered a crime. A crime, to render aid!" Her eyes dropped, she was back to a whisper. "But _Howard’s_ _muggle_ _brother_ gave his life, fighting the Germans. _”_

She took a deep breath and wiped her face again. “The muggle world has so many horrors, Tom but—so many people in that world are also trying to make things better. Ruthie and Benjy are singing _‘debout, debout."_ She sounded like she was smiling. "And Rav Kaplan is in the kitchen with Tilda, debating mishnah. And my parents—” 

Hermione looked up. Her eyes were shining. “My parents raised me to stand up, too! To stand up to injustice." Her smile was fading. "But on this side of things," she shook her head. "Perfectly nice witches and wizards don't see anything wrong with enslaving house-elves."

Her voice was quavering. "Roland Lestrange just joked about raping a house-elf, and raping a muggle— and they're both legal acts." She shivered. "And Druella Rosier is getting her old nurse as a _wedding gift,_ and then she's going to try to get pregnant by a _thirteen year old._ ”

Hermione sighed, and then her chin lifted. “I don't _want_ to leave the muggle world behind, Tom. I don't want to act like being muggleborn is shameful, something I have to _overcome._ ”

She paused for a long moment, and when she continued she sounded surprised. “I want to keep my connections to that world even when I’m a grown up witch. I never want to hide my origins— I want my children to know, I want them to be _proud_ — I want them to be able to understand." There were tears in her eyelashes again. "Even if it hurts. _Especially_ if it hurts. I want my children to know, to know the origins of their names—"

Hermione’s hand came up. She was touching Tom’s cheek, very gently. “But you, Tom Riddle—” she shivered. “You have so much disdain for that world. The world I love. The world that's helped make me who I am. And you seem to be able to look past my origins. You don’t hate _me—_ but it's very hard for me to look past the fact that _they're your origins too_.”

Her hand dropped. “It's hard to pretend you don't know what you're saying. Donnie's just ignorant, but Tom _—your_ bigotry and _your_ chauvinism _doesn’t_ have that excuse.”

Tom waited for more, but Hermione seemed to finally be finished speaking.   
  


Tom did not know what to say.  
  


They completed the walk to the castle in silence. 


	4. Add Up the Parts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione could not figure out if Tom meant this as a joke, or if his words were some subtle sort of threat. His voice had been cool, completely without inflection. 
> 
> She’d really thought she’d learned to read him. 
> 
> Usually she could tell, even when Tom was being very dry: she could tell whether he was teasing, or threatening, or merely enjoying an opportunity to be sardonic. But now she had no idea— 
> 
> He was looking at her. Again. 
> 
> Hermione could feel her heart starting to pound. A rapid, rabbiting ka-thunk, ka-thunk. 

Tom hadn’t said a word, when Hermione finally stopped plotzing and managed to shut up.

He didn’t say a word once she started to walk again, either— he just started walking too. They trudged along the same track, in the same direction, more or less side by side, all the way to the school’s grounds— in silence. 

Past the gates, the carriageway ascended gradually, in long, sweeping loops. The walker’s shortcut meant a steep scramble up the moonlit stubble-and-mud of the late-autumn lawn, and Tom’s longer legs gave him a noticeable advantage in the climb. Rather than slowing to match Hermione’s pace, he pulled further and further ahead.

By the time Hermione had finished picking her way up the castle stairs— her worn-smooth shoes were damp enough from the grass and mud that she worried about slipping on the steps, and oh, she was so ready to be done with skidding and sliding— Tom had long since made his way through the Entry Hall. 

That vast, echoing space was nearly as cold as the night outside. Almost as dark, too. Except for a few, high-set torches, the only light came from the open doors to the Great Hall. 

Noise carried in as well, but dinner sounded quieter than Hermione expected. Merely a loud hum, rather than the usual dull roar of twelve tables of students eating and chattering and clattering. 

Maybe all of Hermione’s classmates were worn out after the Hogsmeade trip. 

Hermione certainly was.

The Hogsmeade trip, and…. 

She couldn’t. Hermione looked to the Great Hall, and she just couldn’t.

Instead, she opened a door to her left and, fingers sliding loosely over the bannister, almost flew down the stairs.   
  


The cellar corridors, snugly buried up to their noses, were noticeably more temperate than the higher floors. And when Hermione opened the door to the Hufflepuff Common Room that chamber, too, was large, empty, and dim— but it was also incredibly cozy. 

Embers glowed in the fireplaces and a few turned-down lamps produced enough light for Hermione to make out the bright patterns on the rugs. The bookshelves were stuffed with mismatched, shabby, well-loved spines; the dangling plant-baskets, filled with ferns and ivy, made interesting shadows on the coffered ceiling overhead.

Hermione's vague plan had been to bury her face in her pillows and scream, scream with frustration and humiliation and angry, thwarted grief, until she fell asleep. But the vacant common room was so appealing— she paused, on the entry landing, just drinking it in. 

And there, next to the far-most fireplace. A small, sybaritic indulgence— Hufflepuffs seemed to have an inborn appreciation for the little things— enabled by the House’s most-favored status with the Hogwarts Elves. The cheerful hot-drinks cart, standing sentry next to the big, heavy kettle ever-steaming over the utility fire. 

The cart was stocked with spoons and cups and saucers, teapots, mugs, and an always-cold pitcher of milk. It lacked sugar, but there was a pot of honey. And a jar of _Wizard’s Beef-Concentrate_ — it wasn’t called Bovril, but it tasted like it should be. That pottery crock, with the small whisk stuck through its handle, was full of dark, bitter cocoa powder, for making hot chocolate. The other canisters were marshmallows, and cinnamon sticks— and inside the little wooden drawers were a dozen different varieties of tea. 

Hermione’s father had been a faithful adherent to the doctrine that _‘life always looks better, after a cuppa.’_

Somebody’s cat, skinny and black, leaped down from its cushion as Hermione built up the fire. Silently, it padded across the room and circled, tail waving, around Hermione’s ankles while she warmed her mug and filled her tea-ball with leaves. 

When it was Clodagh’s turn to make a round, Clodagh vanished the cauldron’s simmering contents and started fresh. Cast _aguamenti_ with her wand held high, so that the conjured stream splashed when it hit the bottom of the kettle. Then she’d wait, serene as a sphinx, through the extra minutes it took for cold water to heat towards a boil. 

Clodagh dropped into almost impenetrably thick Yorkshire dialect if questioned on her process. She seemed to feel that holding the line for excellence in tea-making was part of Tyke pride. _‘Gran always says t’mix air in wi’ th’ watter, when tha mash th’ brew. If tha don't have owt, your’n’ll taste like nowt. Do what tha will, for thy'sen, but for mi'sen— nay!’_ And Clodagh would be spooning the leaves into a proper teapot, not a mug, even if she were only preparing tea for one.

Beneath the hem of Hermione’s robes, the cat meowed. The kettle was singing as it boiled and Hermione swung it off the fire to fill her mug. She’d have been fine with a tea-bag, too, but you couldn’t find anything except for loose-leaf at Hogsmeade and Hogwarts.

The cat meowed again. It was still twining around Hermione's legs. 

Hermione had regretted giving into such blandishments before— feline familiars were famous for taking ‘not-good-with-strangers’ to a level rarely seen even in normal cats— but she couldn’t restrain herself now. She reached down, cautiously, and fondled the twitching ears.

The cat didn't bite, or hiss, or scratch. It just purred, purred like the finely-tuned engine of a luxury car, and nudged Hermione's hand with its whiskery nose. A moment later it was stretching out on its back, demanding a belly rub. 

Still cautious, Hermione complied. 

Her new best-friend was a gorgeous, elderly pussycat. She was slender with age— there was no fat at all beneath Hermione’s hand, only muscle and silky fur and bone— and when she batted at Hermione’s wrist and sleeve she was blunt-pawed, playful.

Eventually, Hermione straightened back up _._ The ancient queen regarded her cooly and then stalked gracefully away. 

Hermione missed Crookshanks. Crookshanks: her fat, fluffy, grumpy, flat-faced old man. 

She was never going to cuddle him while she curled up on a couch and read. Never pick orange hairs off her robes, or wake of a morning to find that he’d settled almost on top of her head.

Hermione stared into her mug, and reached for the honey after she’d done her standard splash of milk. She added one spoonful, and then another and a third, before she carried her cuppa off to bed. It was so sweet it made her teeth hurt, and Hermione abandoned it to grow cold after only a few sips.  
  


She had felt so tired, looking at dinner in the Great Hall, but now she couldn’t sleep. Not properly. Just enough to fall into an endless series of half-conscious dreams. 

A black dog was biting down on Ron’s leg, yanking him flat. The dog dragged Ron down, down the long passage to Hogsmeade— to the Shrieking Shack. 

Crookshanks showed Hermione and Harry the knot that quieted the Whomping Willow and the full moon rose overhead, so huge it covered half the sky. 

The moon was giving off heat, too, it was as hot as the summer sun, and Ron was shouting, defiant— "If you want to kill Harry, you'll have to kill us, too!" 

Hermione felt the same surge of fierce pride and certainty that she had when she was fourteen. A sense of rightness that almost overcame her terror. Ron, quavery with pain but still stubborn, stubborn to the last— "You'll have to kill all three of us!" 

"Hermione."

Harry was saying her name.

But it didn’t _sound_ like Harry.

Why was Harry saying her name? 

And he was touching her shoulder, shaking her— Hermione woke all the way up, squinting from the light shining between her parted bed-curtains. 

It wasn’t moonlight, it was candlelight. It wasn't Harry, it was Clodagh— 

“You weren’t in th' Hall.”

Hermione shook her head, muzzy. “No.” Her mattress had grown lumps, and tendrils of hair were clinging to her sweaty neck. She felt overheated. 

“Are you feeling alright? You didn’t come to dinner, you’ve gone to bed in thy robes—”

Hermione yawned. “I’m fine. I wasn’t hungry. Just very tired.”

“Hmmm.” Clodagh did not sound convinced. “One of th’ younger Slytherins dropped off some packages, he said they were your’n. I’m going to put them here, on your bedside table— what’s th' matter?”

Hermione had bolted up. 

Her sugarquills— Donnie’s cloak! 

She was still wearing it. 

She had worn _Donnie's cloak_ to bed _._ And now it was horribly crumpled, half-twisted underneath her. No wonder she’d been too hot, no wonder the bed felt lumpy— 

“Be these not your things, then? Is this some sort of prank?” 

“No—” Hermione shook her head vigorously. “No, the packages are mine— just what I got from Honeydukes. Donnie ended up carrying my bag of treats. And after you went with Edgecombe, he bought me that book we were looking at—"

Clodagh’s face sharpened with interest. Hermione needed to stop talking. 

"—And two others by the same author, too—”

She was not up to dealing with Clodagh's opinion on, and reaction to, this generosity. Not _tonight._ Hermione faked a yawn, and then found herself yawning again, this time for real. 

“I’m really very tired." A third— they were coming in waves. "I’m going to go back to sleep— thank you, though. Really. For bringing me my things—” 

Reluctantly, Clodagh closed the curtains and withdrew.

Hermione stayed sitting up long enough to shuck off the cloak and strip out of her robes. Then, in nothing but her vest and her knickers, she pulled the covers back to her nose and _tried_ to sleep.  
  


The last dream, the one she woke up all the way from, was set over Christmas Holidays last year. 

Christmas Holidays last year, and very different from how things actually happened. 

Even dreaming Hermione knew that, in reality, she had gotten the message from Dumbledore before they caught the cab to the airport. 

She had gotten Dumbledore’s message about Mr Weasley and the snake, and Harry’s fear that his vision meant he was _possessed._ She had convinced her parents to let her skip Switzerland— skip sliding down icy slopes with pieces of wood strapped to her feet— to go to her friends, instead. To go to Grimmauld Place.

It hadn’t been until the morning of Christmas Eve that Hermione felt even a twinge of remorse for the change in plans. That was when Viktor’s _lammergeyer,_ the immense bearded-vulture he used instead of an owl, finally made it all the way to London.

There was to be a quidditch display in Italy. On the 30th. In the wilderness of the _Parco delle Orobie Bergamasche_ — very near the Swiss border, practically next door to St Moritz. 

One of Viktor’s colleagues had been slated to represent Bulgaria, but now something had come up. Emilya Narazov was dropping out, and Viktor had been tapped to fill in. 

His mother and father were making the best of the disruption to their family holiday period. They would be staying with friends who lived near Bergamo, and attending the competition. And Viktor had happened to mention that Hermione and her family would be skiing close by. 

Of course Gospodin and Gospoda Krum remembered Hermione well, from the Third Task, from Hogwarts. They were eager to meet the Doctors Granger, to meet the parents of such an impressive young witch— 

Viktor’s mother was proposing that she fly fifty miles, across mountains and in the snow, to a town none of the Krums had ever visited before. Then she would apparate the Grangers directly to the stadium. Viktor assured Hermione that Gospoda Krum’s skills at long distance flying were matched only by her talent for side-along.

Or if Hermione didn’t think the display was something her family would enjoy— Viktor knew she was not much for sport, and it wasn’t even a proper game— well, the Krums would be honored to join the Grangers for dinner in St Moritz come that evening. Viktor’s father would ride behind Gospoda Krum on her broom, that way the Gospodin could manage the distance just fine. 

Hermione had tried not to let herself dwell on lovely could-have-beens, when she wrote back that she hadn’t gone on the ski trip after all. Harry had needed her— 

Viktor’s response arrived on New Year’s Eve. He didn’t lie about the fact that he’d been disappointed to receive Hermione’s reply— it had seemed so serendipitous, when Narazov finally gave in and agreed to surrender her place— but loyalty and devotion were some of the character traits Viktor admired most. 

‘ _We will see each other again in summertime, mila. Next summer— Harry must manage without you for a week, or even two, and you must convince your mother and father to bring you to visit me. The hillsides are so beautiful in July, I know you will love it here—'_

  
In Hermione’s dream, Dumbledore’s message never arrived. Or maybe the snake never attacked Arthur Weasley. It might even be a dream of a world where Tom Riddle never became Voldemort, where Voldemort did not exist.

They’re all sitting around a table together. Her and Viktor, and both sets of parents, in a place that, in the dream, Hermione thinks of as _the Swiss Chalet._

It is identical to the Three Broomsticks.

They are drinking butterbeer and the parents are discussing how many children Hermione and Viktor must have, and of what gender. Because they are becoming betrothed. Their parents are negotiating a marriage contract.

Their fathers agree that all the sons must inherit Viktor’s nose, and their mothers want the daughters to have Hermione’s hair. Hermione is trying to ask whose hands they will have, she wants their children to have her hands— 

Then they are arguing about window treatments. Hermione’s Mum and Dad have always bickered over horizontal vs vertical blinds, and Gospoda Krum advocates for no blinds at all, just gauzy curtains and heavy brocade drapes— 

The dream shifts. 

The parents are gone. The parents are gone and Viktor and Hermione are alone. 

Alone, in a place completely lacking any form or dimension. Viktor’s arms exist, though, and they are wrapped around Hermione. He is cradling her to his chest. He is calling her _‘my dearest,’_ and he is kissing her. 

Kissing her mouth, kissing her neck. Kissing bruises into the stretched-taut line of her throat— she is gasping because the not-ache feels so good— 

Now Hermione is lying down, and Viktor is hovering over her. It’s the position they always ended up in, on the bed in his berth on the ship. But now they are doing things they’ve never done, never came close to _before._

It’s not just Viktor’s fingers and thumb, stroking over the curves of Hermione’s breasts as he reaches underneath her robes, gently rolling and tugging at her nipples. It's his mouth. His lips, his tongue— Viktor’s moved up, moved up from kissing her stomach and the lower half of her ribs. They’d done _that_ , before. Hermione knows how _that_ feels— it tickled, sometimes, but it always felt good. 

Now, her robes are gone and Viktor’s hot sweet dream mouth is lathing her tits. He’s kissing and licking and sucking as Hermione thrashes underneath him, craving more. Hermione is half-sobbing, because she needs Viktor to use his _teeth—_

And it’s not just Viktor’s thigh, pressing up, hard and insistent between Hermione’s legs. Giving her something to grind against. It's the palm of his hand, deliberately rocking into her. The pressure feels so good— 

Hermione needs to remember the charm. 

She needs to remember the contraceptive charm, because she wants to go further. 

She wants Viktor’s hand to give way to the thick hardness that’s pressing just above her knee. She wants Viktor to push her open and put himself inside of her. She wants to wind her arms around his back and wrap her legs around his hips and breathe in unison, surging together. She wants to feel like one person, so closely entwined that they can never be parted. Not ever again.

Bethany Partridge made Hermione practice the incantation so many times, but the words have vanished from her head.

She is so _slick._ Slick and slippery and flushed and _wanting,_ Hermione can hardly think _—_

And then the body above her does not belong to Viktor.

Or not just Viktor. 

It’s Tom. Tom’s body, too. 

Tom’s voice but Viktor’s laugh. 

Tom’s eyes, his lips. And Viktor’s beautiful, enormous nose. 

Viktor’s nose brushing over Hermione’s sternum, nuzzling the delicate, thin skin, before Tom’s mouth journeys back to her breasts. 

Tom isn’t just lips and tongue, he’s _teeth._ Clamping down, pulling and tugging— Hermione’s nipple will be far past puffy-and-pink by now. She is going to _bruise._ If Tom’s mouth ever lets go she’ll be red-purple and sore, she’ll be _swollen_ from his indefatigable attention _—_ and the sharp ache is still rising, cresting higher and higher— 

A wet sound. Tom has popped off of Hermione’s poor, abused breast. He is already latching onto her other side, even as she throbs and moans at the delicious pain of release. Her throat is hoarse— Tom switched tits because Hermione _keened_ , because the wreck he was making of her nipple felt so, so good— 

And those had been Viktor’s broad, calloused fingers, alternating firm strokes and gentle caresses over Hermione's labia, between her legs. But when one digit started to work its way inside, when she lifted her hips in welcome, the hand changed. 

Now the fingers were longer. The skin was smoother. This was not a hand that had clutched a broomstick through turns and rolls, grown chapped after hours and hours spent flying in the cold. None of the knuckles were swollen and thick. This hand had never been smashed by bludgers, so frequently that even with healing spells there was too much accumulative damage to fix. 

This is _Tom’s_ hand. It’s Tom’s finger, pressing into Hermoine’s hungry cunt.

This is Tom’s hair, silky and damp with sweat, that her fingers are clutching as he pulls back to admire the mess he's made of her chest. This is Tom’s hair, and now her hands are on Tom’s shoulders. She’s scrabbling at _Tom’s_ back, when he slides a second finger into her cunt, and, moments later, a third. 

That’s a stretch. Three of Tom’s fingers are almost _too much_ of a stretch. They’re noticeably larger than Hermione’s own, and she rarely uses more than two. And because of the angle, her fingers never go this deep, Tom’s rocking his hand into her and Hermione’s cunt is _pulsing_ but she _wants more—_

These are Tom’s lips, making their way up her neck. Tom’s mouth, pressing against Hermione’s as she groans and pants. 

This is Tom’s voice, although when he starts to speak it is Viktor’s accent and Viktor’s words. Tom gives the phrase a different tone. Viktor’s check-ins were always suffused with affection and care, with concern— 

“Tell me vat you vant, _mila._ Tell me if this is alright _—_ ”

The accent fades and everything is Tom. On top of her. Around her. Inside of her— Tom. Only Tom.

“Tell me what you want, Hermione.” An amused chuckle, a lingering kiss. “Tell me that you love this, tell me that I’m making you feel _so good—_ but don’t tell me to stop.” 

Lips brush against her cheekbone. She can feel the warm puff of Tom’s breath, his mouth moving against her skin with every word. 

“Do you really think I’d listen?” 

Tom’s hand is still pushing in and out, between Hermione’s legs. Her hips are still drawing frantic circles, even as he croons: “You’re just a mudblood, Hermione. It doesn’t pay to make me wait. I’m Tom Riddle, and I _always get what I want—”_

Hermione wakes up. 

  
Hermione woke up and she knew, knew from the taste in her mouth, that she’d gone to bed without doing her normal ablutions last night. 

She focused, desperately, on the feeling of gross tongue and fuzzy teeth, pushing away the lingering remnants of that _disturbing,_ disturbingly _erotic_ dream. Her knickers were soaked— 

Plaque can take up to forty-eight hours to calcify. And that meant occasionally skipping brushing before bed was not the end of the world. 

But Hernione’d put _honey_ in her tea. She’d put honey in her tea, even though she never liked it sweet, and she’d not even rinsed her mouth with water. Sugar was acidic _,_ and it had sat on her teeth all night. 

Hermione could hear her mum’s voice in her head, scolding lovingly. _‘Enamel isn’t living tissue, darling— it doesn’t grow back. You’ve got to take good care of what you’ve got, because it’s all you’re ever going to get— ’_

But that wasn’t true. Not always. Not for witches and wizards— 

Hermione’s mouth was fuzzy. It was pitch black, inside her curtains, but it _felt_ like early morning. Not the middle of the night.

And one of her hands was rucked up underneath her camisole. Her other hand was pressed between her legs, and her knickers were _wet._

Not just damp, not just slick. Soaked-through, practically— the gusset was _saturated._

Take wet knickers, add a few ounces of insomnia and restless dreams. Then measure out a scruple of heightened sex drive, add the two drams of emotional friability you’ve prepared the day prior, and a few grains-worth of an unusual craving for sweets— 

Hermione’s period had started early. Started early, and with a _vengeance._  
  


The cleanup was annoying, of course, but Hermione’s primary emotion was relief. She wasn’t going mad— this was the explanation for why she’d gotten so upset, why she’d lost control yesterday.

It’s not that things bothered Hermione _more,_ right before her period. It was just that she had a harder time _ignoring_ her negative feelings, when her hormones were out of whack.

Avery’s little joke— about her parents, about muggles and muggleborns— nastier things had been hurled at Hermione before. Draco Malfoy. Pansy Parkinson. Kreacher the House Elf, and oh, the portrait of Walburga Black. Hermione had long ago learned to not even blink: if she let pureblood bullying get to her, she’d never get anything else done.

And the punchline behind that cruelty? 

Well. 

Ron and Ginny. Fred and George. They told so many jokes about their dad, about his strange obsessions, his garden shed. Those Weasley family jokes had the exact same punchline. They were proud to be blood traitors, but that didn’t mean they saw _muggles_ as _people—_ not _real_ people. Not like witches and wizards. 

At least she’d been able to look over at Harry. When they were younger. Hermione could glance at her best friend and see him grinning back, trying to hold in laughter at the ways that witches and wizards could misunderstand the most basic things, at the idea that witches and wizards believed _muggles_ were the odd ones. 

But that silent solidarity had been fading away. Molly Weasley half-adopted Harry, and he met Sirius, learned more about his father. Learned more about his _wizard_ father, spent less time and less time with his awful muggle aunt. 

And if Hermione were being completely honest, it wasn’t all Harry’s fault. She’d stopped noticing the humor, the ignorance, too. She’d _acclimated,_ in the last five years. 

This was her world.

She was never going back: she needed to fit in.

  
Justin Finch-Fletchely had been the one to put it into words. 

Only a week or two after Umbridge had shut down the DA and Hermione stumbled over Justin, sprawled on the floor of the library. His mouth was stuck shut, and he was attempting non-verbal reversals on a level of hex damage that either indicated an exceptionally bad encounter with Fred and George, or business as usual with the Inquisitorial Squad. 

Hermione crouched, and started swishing her way through counter-curses.

“My parents had my name down for Eton.” Justin laughed, bitterly, once he could open his lips. 

“My parents had my name down for Eton, but Professor McGonnagal convinced them to send me to Hogwarts. She told them it was the top wizarding school in Britain, y’know. Didn’t mention it was the only one.”

His left knee squelched, and then it was facing forward again. Justin bent and flexed while Hermione switched focus to his right side. 

“Olivia, my older sister, she’s in her first year at Cambridge.” He sounded wistful. “Mother’s got a Double First from Oxford, but Finch-Fletchleys are _always_ Tabs.” 

Hermione almost had the right knee reversed too. It was just another moment, and then she’d start on the feathers growing from Justin’s scalp. Or maybe the rash spreading down his neck? It looked really painful— 

“Olivia’s gone up to Cambridge, and I’m going to leave school without any GCSEs. Without any path to higher education at all, even if I somehow ace my OWLs and my NEWTs. Wizard’s don’t _do_ university.”

The right knee popped, settled into place, and Justin winced. 

“Just apprenticeships. Extremely exclusive apprenticeships. I’d need better results than I’m going to get, to snag one of those. More connections, too. _You’re_ going to have choices, Hermione Granger—” 

He reached out and patted her hand, as if he was trying to be reassuring. “Your position as one of Potter’s best friends will go back to counting _for_ you, never fear. This current climate is bound to change. Not to mention everyone says you’re the cleverest witch in the whole school, nevermind our year— not all people who end up with power can be as stupid as Umbridge and Fudge. You might be muggleborn, Granger, but someone will give you a chance.”

Justin was smiling. “And while you’re doing all of us dirty-bloods proud, I’ll be working in a shop. Maybe the mail room in the Ministry. And I’m not going to advance, that’s not going to be the bottom rung of a long ladder. That’s going to be my final stop.”

He shook his head as the quills sank back into his scalp. “This world runs on connections even more than our own, and I don’t _have_ any. My mother’s authored three books on political-economic theory, one of my Uncle’s a diplomat, another’s an MP— between Dad and my aunts and my cousins, there’s a Finch-Fletchley at the head of every major charitable board. And Justin, the youngest in the family?” 

He was laughing again. “I’m going to sort mail and do tea-runs for some halfblood or pureblood until I finally die of old age at one-hundred and seventy-three.”

Justin looked at Hermione, and she said the words along with him. “Y’see, when I was eleven, I thought I wanted to be a wizard.”

Although she said ‘witch,’ of course. Only boys were wizards.

And for her it had been the local girls’ independent school— South Hampstead High— not Eton. Hermione'd still been incredibly excited to start Secondary. You had to sit an entry exam, for South Hampstead, and undergo an interview. She figured that meant she’d finally be surrounded by her fellow swots. She’d finally fit in with her peers. 

And young Hermione occasionally indulged a day-dream of becoming an Oxbridge scholar— South Hampstead actually saw one-in-five students granted admission— but she wouldn’t have sneezed at University College London. Or Kings College. Or Warwick, Exeter, Leeds— Hermione’s parents had met at the University of Manchester, doing their BDSs. There was no shame in attending a red-brick school— not even in attending a plate-glass! 

The Grangers weren’t snobs: they just wanted their only child to have all possible opportunities to learn. They wanted her to be challenged in her studies. And, alright, yes. They wanted a third Doctor Granger— not via a five-year Bachelor in Dental Surgery, though. For Hermione, they wanted a PhD.

None of Hermione’s grandparents had ever attended uni. PopPop and Nana left school at age _fourteen._

Grandpa Wheeler’d stayed in school until sixteen, and then he’d installed and repaired boilers, after the war. He’d been good at it, hired on extra help and started his own business. Once they moved to East Dereham and had Uncle Simon, Grandma Wheeler stopped working as a seamstress. She kept house, raised the children, and did Grandpa’s bookkeeping. 

PopPop and Nana married very young and spent the first decade and a half of their marriage living and working on PopPop’s parents’ farm. When Dad was eleven and Great Grandpa and Grandma sold the property, the younger Mr. and Mrs. Granger moved into town. 

PopPop drove a cab, and Nana, bored with raising one school-age child and keeping up a small flat, looked for work too. She found it: three days a week for the next thirty years, as a part-time receptionist at _Doctor Gregory’s Dental Surgery._

Once Dad hit his teens, Dr. Gregory took him on as well. After-school and holidays, progressing from emptying rubbish bins to sterilizing instruments, processing x-rays, even assisting chair-side. 

And Hermione’s father, her sensible, responsible, filial father— Dad was his own parents’ only child, too. PopPop was already having heart problems by the time Dad turned fifteen. Dad looked at the amount of work Dr Gregory did, and the good doctor’s income. And he gave up his dream of pursuing English Literature, or Classics. He crammed Chemistry and Biology and he applied to uni for a BDS.

Hermione’s mother had less ambivalance about their shared career— Mum said dentistry could be quite satisfying, sometimes. She just rolled her eyes when Dad started going on about _‘increased rates of suicide’_ — but both Doctor Grangers were in complete agreement that they wanted more for Hermione. 

South Hampstead High, followed by University. A Bachelors— maybe a Masters— and definitely a PhD. 

That was the plan in the Granger household, until Professor Minerva McGonnagall knocked on their door, handed their daughter a letter, and turned into a cat. And none of them had realized it at the time, but it was already far, far too late to get the family plan back on track. 

Really, it had not been rational— it had been entirely ridiculous— for Hermione to get _upset_ over the mere fact that Tom did not defend her parents. She wouldn’t have expected _Harry_ to intervene, not if the dismissive words were coming from Ron, or Ginny— coming from someone they considered a friend. 

And what had that _rant_ been, that _screed_ about how she cared so much for her muggle family? Those crazy statements that her children would _maintain a connection to their muggle heritage?_

Hermione’s cheeks were burning red, and it wasn’t the heat of the shower. Oh, yes, she’d _meant_ everything she said yesterday—and Tom, Tom with his _special power,_ had surely heard the truth in her words. 

Why hadn’t he _interrupted her?_ Why had he stayed silent, why had he let her _keep talking?_

Hermione scrubbed harder with the washcloth, until her skin started to sting. Then she leaned against the wall, pressed her face against the cool tile. 

Meaning, wanting—utter futility!

 _'All is futile,’_ Deb quoted, when Ruthie’s rabid idealism started to get on her nerves. _‘All is futile, Kohelet said—_ _one generation goes, another comes. Ever turning blows the wind, and all streams flow into the sea. The earlier ones are not remembered, and a twisted thing cannot be made straight—’_

By the time a young muggleborn arrived at Hogwarts— by the time a young muggleborn started to realize what he or she had gotten herself into— it was too late for changing minds. 

It was too late even before you opened the letter, before you heard the knock at the door. It had _been_ too late since the moment the quill finished writing your name down, on the list of children eligible for admission. 

_G'mar chatimah tovah._ _May you be sealed into the book of life—_ ha!

And when Hermione had a son or daughter of her own— even if she married a _muggle,_ any child she gave birth to was guaranteed to be a wizard or a witch. Squibs only showed up in the oldest, most pureblood families.

Look at Seamus, look at his mother. Mrs. Finnigan. A muggleborn could put her wand away for a while, she could marry a boy she’d known growing up, let him support her since she wasn’t qualified to work a muggle job. She could do her best to forget the world she’d lived in for the last seven years. 

But Seamus said he’d started exploding his toys before he reached his third birthday. Mrs. Finnigan had to explain things to her husband, then. You couldn’t pretend to be a muggle for long. 

So you might as well subscribe to the _Daily Prophet_ , and follow the Quidditch. You might as well marry a wizard, in fact, and earn your offspring the right to call themselves _‘halfbloods,’_ give them that leg up in the rankings of the wizarding world. Because will thee, nill thee— this world was going to own your children, too.  
  


Clodagh was awake when Hermione finally crept back from the bathroom. She whispered hello, and returned her attention to the wand-lit contents of her trunk. With the sun rising at eight-thirty, now, the long, thin windows that lined the exterior wall just beneath the ceiling all showed pitch black. 

They walked up together, once Hermione had finished dressing— everyone else was still asleep. As they made their way along the twisting route that led to the Entry Hall stairs, Hermione tried and failed to charm the creases out of Donnie’s luxurious cloak.   
  


In the Great Hall, the student tables were empty, but all the candles were lit. Professor Dumbledore was seated at the very center of the staff table, perusing a newspaper. Hermione could just make out _‘Supreme Chancellor Grindelwald’_ in gigantic letters at the top of the front page. 

Dumbledore looked up, when the bench scraped against the floor as they sat down. He peered over his glasses, and called out— “Good morning, fellow early risers! The elves will be serving soon, never fear. At least they’ll be sending up porridge and pumpkin juice and pots of tea— the Full Breakfasts generally start closer to seven, of a Sunday.”

Hermione called back their thanks for the information, and pulled _A Few Notes on Numeracy and the Norman Conquest_ from her bookbag, to read while they waited. Despite the title, it was at least two inches thick, and hers, all hers: another of the books Donnie had bought her. Clodagh was an odd sort of morning person, so Hermione might as well read— Clodagh would be gritty-eyed and incapable of holding a conversation until at least her second cup of tea.   
  


Margery slid in next to Hermione as the platters of bacon and black pudding and eggs shimmered into existence. The stars were fading overhead, and there were a few other students in the hall, but Clodagh and Hermione were the only Hufflepuff Sixth Years: Margery convinced them to stay while she ate, to keep her company. 

Hermione’d heaped Donnie’s cloak into her lap to make room once Margery sat down. Now, Margery cut her mushroom caps into precise stips and nodded at the fur collar that was tickling Hermione’s chin.

“I thought your cloak was plain wool.”

Margery’s voice was aimless, but her eyes were sharp, knowing. And on Hermione’s other side, Clodagh had gone still. That little _snitch—_ Clodagh had sicced Margery on her!

“My cloak is plain wool.” Hermione tried to keep her voice equally unaffected. “And it's still in my trunk in the dorm. Donnie loaned me his. You know I didn’t bring mine to Hogsmeade yesterday. I was with Tom’s gang, in the Three Broomsticks, and they kept me past sundown. Much later than I’d planned to stay— it was half-five by the time we left, and you saw how clear it was last night, how cold—” 

Hermione was rambling, she needed to cut herself off. “It was quite brisk and I didn’t have my cloak and Donnie loaned me his. It was very generous of him. I’ll say thank you again, when I give it back.”

Margery took a tiny sip of tea, blew on her cup, sipped again. “And I understand that the loan of his cloak was only the tip of Rosier’s generosity, yesterday.”

Hermione squirmed, and considered serving herself more food. Just to have something to do with her hands. “Yes. Donnie bought me a book, too.”

“It were three books,” Clodagh corrected. “Nice, well-stitched leather bindings. Thick, creamy parchment. Colored illustrations, too. Three beautiful texts, Marge— kinda thing your Aunt Amelia’d be proud to have in’t family library. Not th’ sort that comes cheap.”

“I— I figured Donnie’s family has a lot of money.” Hermione stared at Margery’s plate. “Galleons mean different things to a person, don’t they? Depending on the size of your purse? To Donnie, three books might not seem so generous—”

Margy took pity on Hermione and handed her a dry piece of toast. Hermione broke the slice in half, and immediately began crumbling a corner into dust.

“I’ve never thought _Domhnall Rosier_ was one to be courting our witch.” Clodagh sounded confused. “There’s other names y’could say and I’d nod along, but I’d have sworn Rosier wanted to be nowt more than friends.”

Margery didn’t answer immediately, mouth occupied by chewing on a tough piece of bacon. 

In the pause, Hermione’s mind flashed back to her dream. She had been quivering and quaking, on the edge of a dream-orgasm, and the amused threat in Tom’s voice, his disdainful words— they had only made her dream-body even more inflamed. _‘Tell me that you love this. Mudblood. Don’t bother telling me to stop. Do you think I’d listen? I always get what I want—’_

Margery swallowed. Her voice was crisp and clear. “What did Rosier say, when he bought you the books, Hermione?”

Hermione screwed her eyes shut, shoved the dream out of her mind. Tried to remember. They were crossing the street, and— “he said… Donnie said that he bought them because Tom was waiting. He knew I wasn’t ready to leave the bookstore yet, and he bought them so I’d stop arguing and come along to the pub.”

Clodagh let out a long breath. “That almost makes sense.”

Margery stirred the tines of her fork through her scrambled eggs. “The lines of patronage and affiliation are very odd, among the boys in green and silver in our year. By all rights, Lestrange should be the leader of that group. His family’s highest status, followed by Rosier and Nott, and next would be Avery, then Mulciber. And Tom Riddle at the very bottom, clinging to their cloak-hems. The orphaned half-blood.” 

Margery sighed. She sounded almost exasperated. “They’re _Slytherins—_ if any House is going to arrange around merit, it should _not_ be _them.”_ Her fork clanked on the table. “You’d think Lestrange would be eminent, but Tom Riddle’s been establishing himself as the leader of that little group for a long time. Look what you called them just now, Hermione: _Tom Riddle’s Gang._ ”

Overhead, the ceiling had lightened from indigo to a deep azure-blue. The South-East corner was even brighter, a glowing, cerulean-green. Candles still blazed in the floating chandeliers, but they’d be extinguished soon— the morning was hurtling its way towards proper, civil dawn. 

There were more than a few students at the Slytherin Upper’s table, now— Donnie’s sister among them. Druella was there, and her tall friend. Augie. Augusta Carrow. Augusta soon-to-be-Longbottom. The witch who would— who should, unless Hermione’s presence was changing things too much— one day be _Neville’s Gran._

But no Donnie. No Jack Mulciber, the peace-keeper, always cautious, often kind. No lazy, disdainful, proud Roland Lestrange, nor that cruel _tosser_ Sheridan Avery. No quiet, queer Thadeus Nott, and no Tom. Hermione didn’t even know what adjectives she would use, to try to sum up Tom. 

“So when Donnie got me the books— you’re saying he didn’t buy them as a gift. He didn’t want to do something nice for _me._ You’re saying he did it as a gift for _Tom.”_ Hermione wasn’t sure how the thought made her feel. 

“Maybe.” Margery was back to sipping at her tea. “Your Rosier does seem to consider you a friend, my dear— and occasionally it appears that Riddle does, too. But most of the time...” Margery fell silent, peering at Hermione significantly over the rim of her cup. 

On Hermione’s other side, Clodagh was failing to hold back a laugh. Clodagh might have passed on leadership, in this underhanded attack, but she could never restrain herself from frankness for very long.

“What our Margy’s dancing around saying, Hermione, is that most of th’ time— well. We reckon yon Riddle ‘appens to consider you not as a friend, m’petal, but as _rather something more.”_

Hermione had reduced the entire slice of bread to crumbs and dust. She brushed her hands together, refusing to look up. “That’s probably going to change.” She dabbed her forefinger at crumbs that had landed on the tabletop. “I got quite upset at Tom, I’m afraid to say.” 

She needed to stop chewing on her lip. It was a terrible habit. “I just started my period overnight, and beforehand I tend to be moody.” Hermione blinked rapidly. Why did she feel like she was going to cry? “Yesterday, I got completely overwrought. Said some things I shouldn’t have.” 

When she did raise her eyes, Clodagh and Margery looked more curious than concerned. They either had a great deal of faith in Tom’s supposed devotion, or they’d completely overestimated hormonal Hermione’s self-control. 

“I rather doubt Tom will still want to be friends with me.” Hermione’s voice was quavering. “Much less _something more.”_

  
None of Tom’s gang entered the Hall before Margery finished eating her breakfast.

Margy was determined to drag Hermione and Clodagh out, for a walk around the lake, and she directed Hermione to leave Donnie’s cloak with one of the Slytherin lower-years when Hermione protested that she needed to stay behind at least until _one_ of the boys arrived. 

“I’m not making a Firstie run my errands for me!” Hermione had never been comfortable with the tradition of asking younger students to do the upper years favors, it always felt too much like bullying— and Slytherin wasn’t even her House!

Clodagh’s grin was wicked. “It’s not just you they’d be doing th’ favor for, is it, Hermione? Be as much a favor for Rosier as for thy'sen, and I bet any of those ones would jump at th’ chance to earn credit with him.”

She looked at Hermione sideways, through her lashes. “Not to mention your dear _Tom._ Riddle's sure to look kindly on any member of his House who helps out his _own sweet witch—”_

Hermione continued to hesitate, until Margery was snappish with exasperation. “Give it to Druella, then! She’s Rosier’s sister, she’ll pass it along.”  
  


Druella stared at Hermione with a disdain that did not quite cover her confusion, when Hermione presented her with Donnie’s still-wrinkled cloak.

  
The morning air was cold enough that even Clodagh had started shivering by the time they’d made it across the lawn and down to the lake-path. “I’m never nesh, but this is _nithering—_ mebbe we should go back for our cloaks, Marge—”

Hermione remembered Harry’s Firebolt, soaring towards him in the First Task. She’d always wondered if she was capable of a similar feat. 

Margery and Clodagh looked suitably impressed a few minutes later, as they bundled themselves into their newly-summoned cloaks. Hermione resisted a smile, and _accio’d_ the gloves Tilda had given her, too. Her hands were chilled— it wasn’t _just_ another opportunity to show off.  
  


It was a long walk, around and around the lake. The clouds flared pink, and the sun rose huge and orange above the peaks of the mountains. Then it shrank, and turned yellow-white, climbing higher and higher up into the sky.

Hermione wondered if she’d been missing out on conversations like this in her own time, what with her two closest friends being wizards. Harry didn’t know any more about the magical world than she did, and Ron never seemed to realize when she and Harry had gaping holes in their knowledge. Ron was often so terribly thick. 

Margery and Clodagh, on the other hand, were happy to answer every question Hermione had on wizarding culture and way-of-life.

Like where the line lay, between a halfblood and a pureblood. 

Hermione knew that if she herself married a muggle, or another muggleborn, her children would still be counted as mudbloods. It wasn’t enough to just have a parent who was a wizard or a witch— you had to be connected to one of the acknowledged lineages, to achieve true halfblood status. But the distinction between halfbood and pureblood had always seemed murky. 

Margery's eyes were twinkling when she answered. "It depends, my dear, upon the state of the witch’s great-grandmother's memory— and the wealth and handsomeness of the wizard."

Clodagh chuckled when Hermione looked confused, and Margery condescended to explain further. 

“There isn’t a line, not one everyone agrees on. A halfblood becomes a pureblood when no one can remember, or everyone prefers to forget, that a particular witch or wizard has any strain of mugglish ancestry. It varies entirely depending on who you ask.” 

Margery was gesturing vigorously. “Ask anyone in Hufflepuff, and we’ll tell you that Rhoda Macmillan is a pureblood. Wizards and witches all, going back six generations. The Macmillan’s do rate themselves quite highly, but my parents say they’re good people. It’s not just _Macmillan Enterprises_ in Hogsmeade and Diagon— they own a few farms, too. And they’re starting to build a real name in the ministry. Aunt Amelia has a great deal of respect for Rhoda’s Great-Uncle Magnus, and she speaks very well of several of Rhoda’s cousins— Ninian, particularly, and also Cuthbert and young Anne.”

Margery paused to link arms with Hermione and Clodagh as the path widened enough for three slender witches to walk abreast. “The Macmillans aren’t top-lofty aristos, nor pretentious parvenues, despite that overweening pride. They’re not Slytherins, living off the labor of others: they’re good, hardworking folk. And they always honor their contracts. Work hard, fight fair— Macmillans sort Hufflepuff every time.”

Clodagh seemed to be leaning into the third catechism— _look after our own._ She sounded quite heated as she started to speak, her accent was thicker than normal: “Remember ye, though, when tha' Lestrange asked our Rhoda t' walk down t' Hogsmeade wi’ him, for th' first-ever visit—” 

She turned to Hermione. “I know y’kept thy nose buried in thy books then, Hermione, even more then tha do now, but y’can’t have missed th’ outcry entire—” 

Clodagh paused to spit on the ground. Margery’s nose wrinkled at the gesture, but she didn’t protest.

“—Lestrange’s cousin, ‘twas called Walburga Black then— aye, an’ she’s called Walburga Black now— that _witch_ were in _Seventh_ _Year,_ but she still managed t' catch wind of it all. She wrote t' her aunt and uncle, Lestrange’s mam and da, and they sent th’ wee wizard a _howler._ Yelling in th’ Great Hall, everyone t' hear it. Shouting that _their son_ wasna allowed t' talk to Rhoda ever again. Even though ‘twas nay more than two bairns on a walk, only in Third Year. But t' th' Blacks and th’ Lestranges, a Macmillan is counted as nobbut a common halfblood. A threat t' their precious berk o' a son.”

Clodagh spat, again, and glanced at Margery defiantly. 

Margery didn’t scold, she was sniffing disdainfully herself. “And that’s why Mrs. Orion Black is married to her double-first-cousin, my dears. There _is_ such a thing as _too much_ pureblood pride.”

“ _Double_ first cousins— that can’t be healthy—” Hermione had never realized just _how_ _closely_ Sirius’ parents were interrelated. Was extreme consanguinity giving them problems with fertility? Avery had said that Walburga and Orion were having difficulty _staying_ pregnant— 

“Aye,” Clodagh was nodding in agreement. “But Ogdens, I’m proud to say— we do things rather different.”

Now Margery was the one who sounded indignant. “Not all of us can belong to a great brewing family, Clodagh Ogden! Most of us aren’t tracing descent through the maternal line— it’s much more delicate when the witch is marrying out, rather than the wizard— or the muggle— marrying in—”

“Hush thy'sen.” Clodagh flapped a hand, and turned back towards Hermione, grinning. “Vine-blight was destroying th' grape crop, in France, and all th' witches and wizards were maunging over what spirit to drink now. _Woe is me, ba’ht my brandy and my cognac—_ so my Great-Gran, she was th' younger sister. She wanted to prove herself. She took herself off to Dublin, and she charmed a muggle man into moving to Yorkshire, and marrying her.”

Clodagh’s grin was wicked. “Because Great-Granda— he’d been high in th’ running of a muggle distillery, and Irish whiskey was considered th' best in th’ whole world back then. And what do you know— Great-Gran was appointed heir, once th’ firewhiskey took off. Aunt Cecily’s still not gotten over it.” 

Clodagh laughed so hard she had to wipe her eyes. “Gran convinced Great-Gran to switch names to Ogden’s Old, after Great-Granda died. And we dropped th’ second _‘e,’_ went from firewhiskey to firewhisky at th’ same time— scotch whiskys were really taking off around then, Gran’s got a talent for spotting th’ trend. Great-Granda was a muggle, so he barely lived past three-quarters of a century—” 

Clodagh’s eyes were blazing. “But muggle or nay, he was a good man. A good husband, and a good father. That’s what Great-Gran and Gran always say— a good man, better than you’d ever expect. And that’s why I’m a Tyke with an Irish lassies name.”

Clodagh still sounded quite defiant. “And Ogden witches have been brewsters and maltsters since before time began. We were supplying ales and meads for th’ professors to drink at th’ feasts way back when good old Helga was doing th’ provisioning for yon Hogwarts School. So there are plenty who’ll look past Great-Granda and name me pureblood, with my family’s history and all our wealth. But I’m not ashamed. Not like Rhoda and her _‘six generations back.’_ I’m not trying to hide it: I’m as half-y as anyone.”  
  
  
Hermione’s prediction at breakfast— that Tom might treat her differently, after she’d made such a fool of herself on the path back from Hogsmeade— seemed to be proving true. 

She wasn’t certain on Monday— he didn’t acknowledge her during Herbology and Potions, but those had both been very demanding sessions. Even Donnie was too occupied with his cauldron to do more than nod and smile hello, when Hermione walked up to Slughorn’s desk to drop off her flask. On Tuesday, though— on Tuesday, Tom had definitely given Hermione the cut-direct in Arithmancy. And he ignored her in Ancient Runes, too. 

He’d seemed to be completely caught up in conversation with the other Slytherins, as she made her way towards her usual spot at the back of each classroom. He didn’t look at Hermione at all, even though she slowed all the way down, as she passed next to his desk. In fact, _Lestrange_ had been the one to catch her eye— and Lestrange’s face was completely free from his habitual sneer. His expression looked more like _pity._

Ethelbert Prewett distracted Hermione, at least. Apparently he’d been sliding from ‘E’s to ‘A’s, after he abandoned his _“favorite study-buddy,”_ and he was very happy that _“Riddle’s budged off, and made some room for the rest of us. Not the done thing at all, trying to hog the cleverest and prettiest witch in the class—”_

Hermione tried not to miss Tom’s mordant parchment commentary, as she walked Bert through the simplest ways to solve the equations in the morning, and then corrected his translations, in the afternoon.  
  


When Donnie didn’t swing by to needle Hermione in Transfiguration _or_ Charms on Wednesday, even though she could see that he’d mastered the spells ahead of half the class, she really started worrying that things had gone drastically wrong.

Steeling herself, she walked past the Hufflepuff tables at dinner that night, and headed towards Slytherin.

At least Tom was finally looking at her. In fact, he was _staring,_ unfriendly and cold. But Jack Mulciber smiled— he even said hello. Donnie was keeping his eyes on his plate, and his ears were turning red.

“Hullo, Jack.” Hermione tried her best to smile back. She ignored Tom. “I wanted to speak to Rosier, here—” Donnie’s head bobbed up, before he looked right back down. 

Hermione clasped her hands, and lifted her chin. She spoke clearly— not loudly, but not in anything approaching a whisper. 

“I don’t feel like I thanked you enough, Domhnall Rosier, for loaning me your cloak on Saturday. I’m sorry I returned it to you wrinkled. I don’t feel like I was quite my normal self, that night— I skipped dinner, once I got back to the castle, and I went straight to bed. Something had come over me, you see, I really can’t understand any of my actions. I didn’t even bother to change out of my robes. And I’m afraid I wore your cloak into bed, too.”

Avery seemed to find the idea of _Hermione_ in _bed_ wearing _Donnie’s cloak_ incredibly funny. He was snickering, and nudging Jack Mulciber and Tom. Hermione ignored him. 

“And the books, as well. That was incredibly generous of you, and I wanted to say thank you again. I’ve finished _On an Anglo-Saxon Spellcasting Shift_ — it was very good. And _A Few Notes on Numeracy and the Norman Conquest,_ I’m halfway through that one. It’s been excellent so far. Clodagh wants to read _Spellcasting_ next, but I figured I should offer it back to you first—”

Hermione was chewing on her lip again. Donnie hadn’t looked up the entire time she spoke, and she didn’t know what else to say. She could feel Tom’s eyes on her still, and she almost felt dizzy from the force of his gaze.

Lestrange’s voice was a surprise. “I’d be interested in borrowing _Norman Numeracy_ when you’re done with it, Granger. I’ve heard the author used some of our family records for research, and I’d be interested to see what she has to say on the subject of _Roger d’Lestrange—”_

He nudged Donnie. “You might want to look for mentions of the Rosiers, too, old-boy. Or no, your family didn’t cross the channel until the fifteen-hundreds, did they— Huguenots. Still, sounds like quite an interesting read.”

“I’d be happy to share it with you, Lestrange.” Hermione kept her chin high. She was _not going to cry—_

“I’ll add my name to the list for the spellcasting one if you don’t mind, Hermione m’dear—” Jack had turned on the bench, to face her fully, and you could almost miss the way he’d managed to use the cover of movement to give Donnie a hard wallop in the ribs.

“Of course. I’m happy to share—”

The table rattled as Donnie slammed his silverware down. “Not so fast, Jack Mulciber— I bought that book for our witch, here, and I figure that means I’ve got next dibs.”

Donnie was finally meeting Hermione’s gaze. He looked shame-faced, but when she wrinkled her brows together, and smiled, he started beaming back. 

“I’m an English-wizard, aren’t I?” The non-sequitur made zero sense, but Donnie sounded impassioned. “I can choose my own friends, can’t I? There’s not a wizard— except for my father— who can tell me what to do!”

Hermione glanced at Tom, and Tom’s eyes were _burning._ She shivered, and looked away.

Hermione didn’t want to get Donnie in any sort of trouble— it was so easy to forget, who people would— could— become in the future. 

Tom wasn’t Ron, in a brief snit over some small thing that Hermione had said. Tom was a _possible future Lord Voldemort—_

Donnie was still speaking. “Let’s meet in the library after dinner, day after tomorrow. Bring Ogden— Bones, too. That Charms essay looks like it’s going to be a beast. We can settle in and study until late— Friday’s got an eleven pm curfew.”

“Better snag a good-sized table, Granger.” Lestrange was back to his usual drawl. “Mulciber and I will be joining you.”

“And me,” Nott’s voice was quiet but certain. “Flitwick always seems so harmless, but on that last assignment I just barely scraped in above a _‘T.’_ I could use Granger and Ogden’s eyes, this time.” 

He nodded at Hermione. “After Riddle, you witches are the head of Charms class.” Nott’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “You might not have realized it, Granger, but Riddle’s not been in much of a mood for tutoring, these last few days.”

Donnie’s grin threatened to split his face. “Too bad your not doing a NEWT in Charms, eh, Avery? Friday night, three pretty witches and all your best chums— you’re going to be missing out on _quite_ the party!” 

Now Donnie was winking at Hermione. “Don’t suppose Ogden could use her family connections, love? Get us something to drink? Studying can be such _thirsty_ work—”

Hermione wasn’t sure if she should gasp, or laugh. She started to raise her hand, to cover her mouth, and then froze. Tom had finally decided to join the conversation. 

“You know I’d have to take points if you brought alcohol into the library, Rosier.”

She could not figure out if Tom meant this as a joke, or if his words were some subtle sort of threat. His voice had been cool, completely without inflection. 

She’d really thought she’d learned to read him. 

Usually she could tell, even when Tom was being very dry: she could tell whether he was teasing, or threatening, or merely enjoying an opportunity to be sardonic. But now she had no idea— 

He was looking at her. Again. 

Hermione could feel her heart starting to pound. A rapid, rabbiting _ka-thunk, ka-thunk._

She forced her mouth to relax. She had practically bitten through her lip— 

Tom was still staring. And his eyes were locked on the lower half of her face, and this gaze was decidedly _hot._

He was watching her tongue. Watching her tongue dart out, lick against her lower lip. Try to soothe the sore spot that her teeth had made— 

Hermione was flashing back to the litany that had been going through her head, right before she woke up from that terrible, wonderful dream. _Red-purple, and sore. Swollen, from Tom’s indefatigable attention—_

In the dream, those thoughts referred to the effect that dream-Tom’s mouth was having on her _nipple—_

At least real-Tom couldn’t _read her thoughts—_

 _Oy,_ a _mecheieh_ ! Really though— this situation was calling more for ‘ _Oy, gevalt!’—_

Now Hermione’s cheeks were hot. 

Her throat, her neck, her entire face— she knew she was flushing bright red. 

And she could not stop herself from pulling her lip back into her mouth again. She was biting down, she was going to _chew—_ maybe she’d draw blood, this time— 

“Make it a table for eight. Granger.” 

Tom had managed to peel his eyes away from her lips. He was finally meeting her gaze. 

“Hermione.”

His mouth was curling into a smile. But what _kind_ of a smile, his eyes still looked cold— 

“Make it a table for eight, Hermione. I’ll be joining you on Friday too.”


End file.
